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I 



CHRISTLIKE 


SAVE THE FALLEN 


By ANNIE NELLES DUMOND, 

AUTHOR OF 


THE LIFE OP A BOOK AGENT; “rAVENIA, OR THE OUTCAST REDEEMED*,’^ 

“happy at last, or a sequel to the life op a book agent;” 
“national reform, or liquor and its consequences;” 
“the hard times — THE CAUSE AND THE REMEDY;” 
“church and SUNDAY-SCHOOL INFLUENCE;” “SCRAPS, 

OR SUNDAY-SCHOOL INFLUENCE,” ETC., ETC. 



St. Louis: 

PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR, 
1896. 


/ A 

V , 



Copyrighted, 1896, By 
ANNIE NELLES DUMOND. 




D(^dicatio9. 


To that noble band of heroic men and women, who, despising the reproach 
of the world, and having an eye single to the glory of God, labor with might 
and main, never wearying and never looking backward, to effect the eleva- 
tion and redemption of fallen humanity, this work is respectfully dedicated. 

May He who has said “The harvest is great, but the laborers are few,’* 
add daily to your numbers; may He crown your every effort with success; 
and may you at the last be gathered to eternal rest in His mansion, “Bring- 
ing your sheaves with you,'’ is the earnest, heartfelt prayer of 

THE AUTHOR. 




PREFACE. 


The favor and kindness with which former works by the 
authoress have been received by a generous public, has induced 
her to once more solicit their indulgence , and she is moved to 
the publication of this work solely as a means and in the hope of 
accomplishing some good to her fellow -creatures ; and in intro- 
ducing it she desires to present a few plain , practical questions 
to each one of her readers. 

Do you know any poor outcast in your own city, village or 
neighborhood, who, either deservedly or otherwise, is loathed* 
detested and despised by almost the entire community ; against 
whom every door is closed , and who looks in vain for any aid 
or countenance in the effort to escape from the worse than 
Egyptian bondage which enthralls them? And do you ever 
stop to consider that these poor, wretched, despised beings 
have immortal souls to be saved at last, as well as yourself? 
What is your conduct toward these poor unfortunates? Does 
your benevolence embrace even them also? 

It was one of the reproaches cast on our Savior during His 
ministrations on earth, by the Pharisees, that He stooped too 
low in this respect, and that He seemed to take the part of 
wicked and undeserving people. ‘‘Behold,” said they, “a 
friend of publicans and sinners ’ and again, ‘ ‘This woman is 
a sinner. ’ ’ But He silenced and confounded them by saying, 

‘ ‘I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance. ” 
And herein He set an example to His followers which we fear, 
alas! is but seldom emulated. 

Are you, my reader, like Him, a friend to this most discred- 
itable class of sinners? Is their reputed unworthiness no argu- 
ment with you for declining an opportunity of doing them 
good, or making an earnest, Christian effort to save their im- 
mortal souls? Do you each do what in you lieth to effect their 
redemption, and not despair of them despite the sneers of the 
world and the scoffs of unchristian people? Or, on the con- 

(5) 


6 


PREFACE. 


trary, does the dread of suffering in your own reputation con- 
tinually check and restrain you in the just exercise of your 
beneficence? 

Our Savior was remarkable for His condescension, humility 
and indifference to worldly praise, and His love has respect 
chiefiy to the souls of mankind. Are you doing like Christ? 

Are you chiefly concerned also about the souls of your fellow- 
men, and especially of the class of which we have been speak- 
ing? Do you seek by all means in your power to promote men’s 
eternal interests? Do you labor to enlighten, to elevate, to 
instruct, to invite, to warn and to reclaim the outcast as did 
our Redeemer, and do you weep over the case of impenitent 
sinners as He wept over Jerusalem? Or, on the contrary, are 
you of those who make light of men’s spiritual interests — who 
seem almost to forget that their fellow -creatures have immortal 
souls, and who, at the utmost, can only be prevailed on to 
show a little humanit}^ to their bodies while their souls are left 
to perish? 

These are questions which each must answer for himself, 
only remembering that there are none so sunken in infamy, and 
want, and woe, but His loving hand can reach them, and that 
all were once pure and’ innocent babes , as were you when you 
lay at your mother’s breast. 

In the hope that this little volume may lead some to more 
earnest reflection upon the path of duty and strengthen them to 
walk therein; may be the means of leading some stray lamb 
back to the fold, and may be received and judged by a generous 
public with the same kindness and favor awarded her other 
works, it is respectfully submitted by 


THE AUTHOR. 


TABLE OF CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I. 

PAGE 

Mary’s birth and parentage — Death of her father — Death of her 
mother — She goes to Dr. Brown’s — Altercation between Dr. 
Brown and his wife 9 

CHAPTER II. 

Cruelty of Mrs. Brown to the orphan — Almost frozen to death — 
Mrs. Bay delivers her — She receives a severe beating from 
Mrs. Brown — Kittie carries her to the house of Dr. Bay — 

She is adopted by him— The trial — Kitty goes to live at Dr. 
Bay’s 25 

CHAPTER III. 

Happiness of Mary at Dr. Bay’s — Their judicious management 
of her — They decide to send her to boarding school — She 
goes — Harry Bay 37 

CHAPTER IV. 

Harry and his aunt visit Mary — Harry in love — William Jones. . 49 

CHAPTER V. 

The visit continued — Sabbath School — The villainy of Jones — 
Mary visits her home — The greeting — Harry’s proposal 66 

CHAPTER VI. 

The scene at the tea-table — Interview between Harry and Kitty 
in the garden — Kitty is to accompany Mary on her return to 
school — Mary’s delight 83 

CHAPTER VII. 

Mary’s return to school— Kitty’s illness — The new chambermaid 
— Jones’ proposal — Acceptance — Mary’s dream 95 

CHAPTER VIII. 

The forged letters— Arrangements for the marriage of Mary and 
Jones — Her innocent, unsuspecting nature — His falsehoods. . 110 

, CHAPTER IX. 

The elopement — The journey to Blairsville — Pretended relatives 
— Fearful disclosure of Jones’ plot 120 

CHAPTER X. 

Misery and wretchedness— Alone— J ones’ return— The journey to 
Pittsburgh— The quarrel— Jones goes away— She writes to 
her father— Jones’ return— The final departure 129 

( 7 ) 


8 


TABLE OF CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER XI. 

PAGE 

Retrospective — Effect of Mary’s elopement — Mrs. Bay -and 
Harry arrive at Huntingdon — Mystery — Vain efforts to find 
her — More forgeries — Death of Dr. Bay — Death of Harry — 
Sale of Homestead — Mary driven into the street, because an 
outcast 146 

CHAPTER XII. 

Mary in Cincinnati — Her desire to escape from her present mode 

of life — Meets Lieutenant He befriends her — She 

is turned into the street by Mrs. Her despair — 

She finds shelter and kindness 161 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Mrs. D and her family — Their kindness to our heroine — 

Gus He falls in love with Mary — The proposal — 

The revelation— Engaged. 183 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Francis Wills — Failure of Mary’s lover — He goes to Idaho — His 
Faithlessness and desertion 193 

CHAPTER XV. 

Wills proposes to Mary — Is accepted — Their marriage — His 
death 204 

CHAPTER XVI. 

The Funeral — Mary learns the photographer’s art — Eva Earl — 

Her history — Her little boy 215 

CHAPTER XVII 

Commencement of the intimacy between Mary and Eva — The 
walk in the garden — She sends a holiday gift to her former 
lover 232 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Mary’s efforts to do good — Ada Vance, Marcia Howard — Re- 
deemed — The journey to Cleveland 240 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Letters — Marcia’s wedding — The visit to Cincinnati — Return 
home — Adventure of Eva Earl in New York — The lunatic 
Asylum — Anna Bird 254 

CHAPTER XX. 

Eva’s illness — Mary’s care of her — Taken sick herself — Her re- 
covery 271 

CHAPTER XXI. 

The “Woman Question” — Its discussion 282 

CHAPTER XXII. 

The strange photograph — Ford Bentley — Clara’s wedding — The 
double wedding — Surprises — Conclusion 296 


CHRISTLIKE— SAVE THE FALLEN. 


CHAPTER 1. 

Maey Smith, the heroine of our tale, was born 
of poor but respectable parents, in the village of 
Kittaning, in the State of Pennsylvania. Her 
father was an honest, industrious mechanic, and a 
man of strictly temperate and moral habits ; and, 
so long as he retained his health, was able to sup- 
port his family in a reasonably comfortable man- 
ner from the labor of his hands. But something 
over a year before the birth of Mary he had met 
with a serious accident from the giving way of a 
scaffold upon which he was working, and from 
which he sustained such serious injuries that fora 
long time his life was despaired of. A naturally 
strong constitution, however, aided by his temper- 
ate and frugal habits, at length triumphed and 
his life was saved, and he even restored to some 
degree of health. But alas ! he was only the 
shadow of his former self, and when he once more 
went forth to resume his daily toil, he found that 
the severe shock to which his system had been 
subjected, and the long period of illness conse- 
quent thereupon, had sadly shattered his constitu- 
( 9 ) 


10 


CHRISTLIKE. 


tion and left him but the wreck of the active, stal- 
wart man he once was, and that he could no longer 
pursue his former vocation with his accustomed 
zeal and energy. His spine had sustained severe 
injury, and his trembling limbs refused to support 
for any considerable length of time the weight of 
his manly frame. 

But no other avenue of life was open to him. 
Fitted by habit and education only for the rough 
toil amid which the years of his manhood had 
been spent, without means to engage in any light- 
er or more lucrative employment, he could only 
struggle on against the frowns of adversity, only 
hoping that time might bring healing and relief. 
Yain hope. For more than two years he toiled 
on, laboring whenever his health would admit, 
with whatever energy he was able to command, 
but to little purpose. Being thus in a great meas- 
ure deprived of the means of gaining a livelihood, 
he gradually fell behind in his pecuniary affairs, 
and when about a year after the birth of our hero- 
ine, he died — on account, in part no doubt, of the 
injuries received in the fall above mentioned — he 
was found to be so much involved as to render 
necessary the sale of almost the whole of his lit- 
tle property, including the cottage which had been 
the home of himself and his loved one, and where 
Mary was born, thus leaving his widow and orphan 
helpless, friendless and even without shelter in a 
cold and uncharitable world. 

• Mrs. Smith was a woman of remarkable beauty 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


11 


and of refined and naturally intelligent character, 
though possessed of but a limited education ; 
while her deep, earnest conviction of right and 
wrong amounted almost to religion with her. She 
had married William Smith solely from love of his 
noble manhood and admiration of his exalted 
moral character, and their wedded life had been 
but one continual scene of peace and calm con- 
tent. Humble though their lot had been, and 
oftentimes, after her husband had been disabled 
by accident, approaching the verge of destitution, 
no murmur or word of complaint had ever passed 
her lips to add to the burdens which he already 
bore. Cheerfully she accepted her lot and walked 
by his side, the constant,, devoted friend and sup- 
porter of him to whom she had unreservedly given, 
with her hand, the full measure of her true 
woman’s love. 

But when after his death, she realized fully her 
destitution — realized that she was alone, friend- 
less, without means or influence, debarred by her 
limited education from entering any of those fields 
to which admission can be gained only through 
the portals of the school-house, but where culti- 
vated intellect is sure to find its reward— realized 
that her infant daughter, even more helpless than 
herself, was entirely dependent upon her — what 
wonder that for a moment she shrank from encoun- 
tering the obstacles which loomed up in such 
gigantic proportions before her, that the demon of 
despair almost took possession of her soul, and 


12 


CHRISTLIKE. 


that for a time she almost gave up all hope and 
wished that she might lie down in the silent slum- 
ber of the grave beside him she had so loved? 
But anon came a better feeling and a calmer state 
of mind. Her babe — the fruit and pledge of their 
affection — lived and must be cared for, and for her 
sake the mother roused herself and set about de- 
vising means to obtain a livelihood. She was ad- 
vised by friends to part with her child, and one 
lady in particular, who had lost a child about 
Mary’s age, was very anxious to adopt her as her 
own. But Mrs. Smith would not entertain the idea 
for a moment. Ho; she was her own flesh and 
blood and was all that she had to love — the only 
tie, save bitter memory, which bound her to the 
happy past, and she could never consent to be sep- 
arated from her in life. But what could she do 
for her own and her infant’s support ? 

And at once her thoughts turned to the needle — 
that little instrument which furnishes a precarious 
support for so many thousands of American 
women as they stitch, stitch their lives away to 
obtain the miserable pittance accorded their late 
and early toil by purse-proud capitalists, every 
dollar of whose Avealth is stained with drops of 
life-blood from the very hearts of those who are 
forced by sheer necessity to accept their meagre 
bounty or starve. She well understood all the suf- 
fering and privations which would attend her life ; 
she was fully aware that weariness and want were 
the almost inevitable attendants of the life of a 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


13 


seamstress ; she foresaw the sneers and suspicions, 
the covert insults which she must encounter, but 
the world was dark and cheerless before her, and 
she had no other alternative. And with a heavy 
heart she sallied forth from the little rooms, which 
the kindness of a neighbor had enabled her to 
procure, in search of employment in the field 
which not choice but stern necessity Ijad impelled 
her to enter. 

It is not the purpose of this story to follow Mrs. 
Smith through the ups and downs of her years of 
toil and insufficient compensation — to recount in 
detail the heart-burnings and bitter mortifications, 
the coldness, jeers and taunts which not unfre- 
quently greeted her from those more favored by 
fortune than herself — it is enough for the purpose 
of this story to say that for more than four long 
years the most unremitting toil, oft protracted 
to the small hours of the morning, barely sufficed 
to provide herself and her child with the very 
commonest necessaries of life. 

But she was of delicate frame and constitution, 
and the constant toil and anxiety told fearfully 
upon her system, and all too soon the wasted 
form, the pallid cheek and dry, hacking cough 
gave notice unmistakably that she, too, would 
soon be called home, and Mary left an orphan 
indeed. She, poor child ! was too young to under- 
stand or heed these tokens of approaching disso- 
lution, but to the mother herself they were fear- 
fully apparent, and none but a mother’s heart can. 


14 


CHRISTLIKE. 


comprehend the feelings which thrilled her soul 
as she contemplated the prospect of her early 
decease. Not that she feared to go into the pres- 
ence of her Maker — her soul was too pure and 
noble for that — but the thought of what might be 
the fate of her child, when she should be deprived 
of the guardian care of her mother, was ever pres- 
ent, poisoniijg all her joy and embittering every 
moment of her life. And often at the midnight 
hours, when her little one was wrapt in the 
sweet slumber of innocent childhood, she mused 
upon this subject until her brain almost went 
wild, and the scalding tears forced her to lay 
aside the work upon which, perhaps, the next 
day’s supply of food and fuel depended. Oh! 
how fervently upon such occasions she prayed 
that the Father of all would, in His infinite good- 
ness, spare her life until her daughter should no 
longer require the mother’s fostering care. But it 
was not to be. 

A short distance from the house, a part of 
which Mrs. Smith occupied, lived a kind-hearted 
and wealthy physician by the name of Brown. 
In the early gray of a spring morning, barely five 
years from the decease of William Smith, the 
door-bell of Dr. Brown’s residence was rung with 
great violence. The doctor had just finished his 
toilet (for he was an early riser), and at once 
started for the door, but before he reached it the 
summons was repeated with an energy which left 
no doubt of the importance and urgent character 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


15 


of the call awaiting him. Upon opening the door 
he found upon tlie steps the kind-hearted Irish 
woman from whom Mrs. Smith rented her rooms. 

“ Sure, docther,” she said, without stopping 
even for the usual morning salutation, “ and will 
ye jist go over to the place of me? The swate 
lady, heaven bless her, I do belave is dyin’.” 

“What lady do you mean?” said the doctor, 
hesitatingly, for he very much disliked the idea 
of going out before breakfast, unless the case was 
one of great emergency. 

“What lady? Why, Mrs. Smith, for shure,” 
said the warm-hearted Irish woman. “ Bless her 
swate soul, she is shure to die, and then what’ll 
become of her little darlint?” 

“ How long has she been sick, and what is the 
matter with her?” 

“Matther is it? Och, docther, for shure I do 
belave it’s jist overwork and starvin’ to death she 
is. Poor woman! Shure she hasn’t been able to 
work for the last year, but still she kept stitch, 
stich, stitch, stitchin’ away, until yesther morn, 
not seein’ her sittin’ at her little winder, I jist 
made bould to go right into her room, and there I 
found her in bed, kind o’ stupid like, while her 
little one was cryin’ to be dressed, for it was long 
past her gittin’ up time. ‘ Good-mornin’, Mrs. 
Smith,’ says I. ‘ Good-mornin,’ says she, kind o’ 
feeble-like. ‘ How do you feel this mornin’, Mrs. 
Smith?’ says I. ‘Kind o’ tired,’ says she, ‘but 
I’ll be betther afther a little.’ And then I jist 


16 


CHRISTLIKE. 


looked at her and I saw she was rale sick, and I 
jist wint and fetched her some tay and a bit of 
bread and butter, but no more could she ate. So 
I jist stayed wid her all day and all night, and I 
raly thought she’d die afore mornin’. Sich faintin’ 
spells as she had,” said the good woman, shaking 
her head slowly from side to side at the recollec- 
tion; “but will yees come, docther, dear?” 

“ Why, bless me, yes,” said the old doctor, his 
sympathies fully roused by the somewhat prolix, 
yet graphic account of the honest-hearted Irish 
woman. “What! starving to death, and in this 
Christian land! It cannot be ; ” and without even 
stopping to ask the old woman into the house, so 
much was he shocked and startled by her tale, he 
hastened to make the necessary preparations for 
his visit, while the kind nurse returned with all 
speed to the helpless woman whose pitiful condi- 
tion had so strongly appealed to her warm Irish 
sympathies. 

And not long did the worthy doctor delay in 
following her, but hastily making a few necessary 
preparations, and without once thinking of his 
breakfast, he stood in a few moments by the bed- 
side of the dying woman — for dying she really 
was — and the first glance which the man of science 
cast upon the pallid face told him that he had 
been summoned too late, and that here all his sci- 
ence and all his skill were in vain — that his sym- 
pathy and proverbial kindness would now avail 
naught save, it might be, to smooth her passage 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


17 


over the darkened river. The ghastly, ashen hue 
of death had already overspread her countenance, 
and her breathing was slow and labored, though 
she was still in the full possession of her senses, 
and could talk, but in a low tone and with some 
difficulty. 

‘‘Doctor,” said she, feebly, recognizing him as 
soon as he took his seat at her bedside, “ tell me 
truly, am I not dying?” 

“ To trifle with you at such a time as this were 
worse than useless,” replied the kind-hearted old 
man; “you have but a few hours at most — per- 
haps only a few minutes — to live.” 

“I felt sure of it,” she replied, calmly; “I was 
sure these feelings could portend nothing but im- 
mediate death, and for myself I do not fear to go. 
Life is but a sorrowful journey, and this world a 
sad place since my husband has gone and left me. 
But oh! doctor,” and here her mother’s love fllled 
her heart and lent unwonted energy to her feeble 
tones, “what will become of my poor Mary when 
I am gone? Who will supply her mother’s place 
and care for her as I would have done?” 

“Have no fears upon her account, Mrs. Smith,” 
replied the kind physician, his eyes melting as he 
spoke; “I will see that your little one is provided 
for.” 

“ Oh ! doctor,” said the poor woman, half rais- 
ing herself upon her elbow in the earnestness of 
her supplication, “ you have no children — promise 

me that Mary shall become your child ; that you 
2 


18 


CHRISTLIKE. 


will take her to your own home and care for and 
educate her as you would if she were your own 
daughter. Promise me this, and I can die con- 
tented and happy. But to have her cast upon the 
cold charity of the world, with no place to call 
her home, and no one to care what becomes of her 
— I cannot bear to think of it. Will you not 
promise me?’’ she asked, with almost frantic 
eagerness, and fixing upon his face a look of im- 
ploring entreaty which he was powerless to resist. 

“ Yes, my good woman,” replied the doctor in a 
tone which told how deeply he was moved by this 
passionate appeal, “I promise, and may heaven 
deal with me as I redeem that promise.” 

“ Oh ! doctor, what a weight you have taken 
from my mind, and now I can die contented. Grod 
bless you for that promise,” said she, feebly, the 
sudden energy which had animated her passing 
away ; and sinking back upon her pillow, in a few 
moments her bruised and worn spirit had taken 
its flight to join his whom she had so loved, and 
from whom she had been so long separated. 

Dr. Brown was too much accustomed to scenes 
of death to be moved to any great extent by them ; 
not so, however, the kind-hearted Irish landlady. 
In her simple, quiet life, she had witnessed but few 
exhibitions of the power of the dark angel, and she 
stood in silent awe till Mrs. Smith had ceased to 
breathe, when she burst into violent wailing and 
lamentation over the deceased, recounting in true 
Irish style her worth and her virtues. The doctor, 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


19 


however, quieted her by sending her in search of 
Mary (for she had not been present during the last 
sad scences of the tragedy), and then giving the 
necessary directions for the funeral, took the little 
girl and started with her for his home, not, how- 
ever, entirely easy in his mind as to the reception 
he would meet with upon his arrival there. 

Although the kindness of Dr. Brown’s heart was 
proverbial, he was yoked with a most uncongenial 
mate in the person of his wife. She was one of 
those rare specimens of feminine humanity in 
whose character kindness seemed to be entirely 
wanting — a haughty, overbearing woman of the 
world in her intercourse with society, and a terma- 
gant at home. She was never able to appreciate 
the motive which induced one to perform an act of 
disinterested charity and kindness, and seldom or 
never acted herself from any but the most sordid 
and selfish inducements. Her emotionless features 
and eyes, cold, gray, and hard as iron, were never 
lighted up in response to any ennobling or gener- 
ous sentiment, and her heart never moved with any 
of the warmer or kindlier impulses of our nature. 
“Many a time and oft” had she rated the good 
doctor soundly for his constantly recurring deeds 
of charity and kindness, and on such occasions her 
sarcastic disposition led her to make remarks 
which she afterwards deeply regretted. It was the 
doctor’s usual custom at such times to make no 
reply, but quietly putting on his hat he would 
leave the house and remain away until he judged 


20 


CHRISTLIKE. 


a sufficient time had elapsed for her passion to 
subside. 

Now, however, he felt that this course would not 
answer. He had promised the dying woman that 
Mary should become a member of his family, and 
he felt that in order to fulfill that promise it would 
be necessary to face the storm of her wrath, how- 
ever severe it might be, and to assert his authority 
in the premises ; otherwise he felt sure Mary would 
be driven incontinently from the house. No won- 
der then that he dreaded meeting his virago of a 
wife, for he had long since learned to fear her sar- 
castic and venomous tongue. 

And in this instance his apprehensions were not 
at fault. Mrs. Brown saw him before he reached 
the house, leading the little girl by the hand, and 
carrying under his arrii the little bundle of cloth- 
ing which belonged to her, and which the kind- 
hearted Irish landlady had put up for her, and the 
sight aroused all the termagant in her breast. She 
met him at the door. 

“ What beggar’s brat have you got there ? An- 
other of your subjects of charity which you have 
picked up in the street, I suppose. Well, you 
need not bring her in here. Let her stay where 
she is till Kitty can get her a piece of bread, and 
then let her be off with herself, for I don’t want 
her about here.” 

“ This little girl’s name is Mary Smith, and she 
is going to stay here,” replied the doctor calmly 


SWE THE FALLEN. 


21 


but firmly, for he knew the best way was to settle 
the matter at once. 

“ Who is Mary Smith, pray, and why is she go- 
ing to stay here ? ” demanded the lady in a shrill 
voice, indicative of her anger at the audacity which 
had dared to propose such a thing. 

“She is the daughter of William Smith, a poor 
but very worthy mechanic, who died some few 
years since, leaving his widow and this child in 
indigent circumstances. Since then Mrs. Smith 
has supported herself entirely with her needle, and 
this morning I stood by her dying bed and in her 
last moments promised her that Mary should have 
a home with me. And that promise will be kept,” 
said the doctor, passing his irate lady and enter- 
ing the house, still holding his little charge by the 
hand. 

For a moment she could find no words in which 
to express her feelings. It had never entered her 
mind that the doctor had contemplated taking the 
little stranger to rear — the utmost she conceived 
was that some temporary charitable relief was to 
be afforded her, and that was amply sufiicient to 
arouse her utmost indignation — but when she 
learned the whole truth she was so overwhelmed 
with astonishment at his presumption that for a 
short time she was utterly incapable of expressing 
her feelings. She followed him into the house. 

“Well,” said she at last, spitefully jerking out 
her words one after the other, “ this is a delight- 
ful piece of business. I suppose it is not enough 


22 


CHRISTLIKE. 


for you to take care of your wife and your two 
children, but you must turn your house into an 
asylum for all the orphan beggars in the country.’’ 

“ Madam,” said the doctor, decidedly, “it is use- 
less to remonstrate. I promised Mrs. Smith that 
her child should be taken care of, and she shall 
be.” 

“ Then let her go to the asylum for the poor.” 

“Never while I live. It is useless to discuss 
this matter further. She is here and she will 
stay,” replied he, with the air of a man who is 
fully decided and intends to shut off further con- 
troversy. 

Not so the lady, however. She had been so 
long accustomed to have her own way, and to rule 
her husband with a rod of iron, that it seemed 
almost impossible for her to yield. But this time 
the doctor was immovable. His rebellion was 
complete and successful, and after much alterca- 
tion Mary was formally installed as a member of 
Dr. Brown’s household, but more in the capacity 
of a menial servant than an adopted daughter, as 
will appear in the course of this “ over true tale.” 

Mary was at this time barely six years old, but 
the impression made upon her by this angry dis- 
cussion, the whole of which took place in her pres- 
ence and hearing, was never effaced from her recol- 
lection. From this time forth she, of course, 
looked upon Mrs. Brown as her bitterest enemy, 
and the doctor as her only friend and protector, 
and subsequent events proved that the childish 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


23 


opinion she had then formed was correct, at least 
that portion of it relating to Mrs. Brown. But let 
us not anticipate. 

As has already been stated, Mary was at this 
time six years of age. She was very small of her 
age, but a more engaging or interesting child is 
rarely met with. She had inherited all the beauty 
of her mother, while the contour of her head indi- 
eated that she possessed in an eminent degree the 
practical good sense and honest straightforward- 
ness of purpose of her father. Her hair was dark 
and hung in ringlets to her shoulders, and with her 
dark hazel eyes, now lighted with mirth, anon 
melting with the affectionate, trusting, devoted 
love of innocent childhood, and again flashing with 
diminutive anger at some real or fancied trespass 
upon her rights or feelings, set off to the best 
advantage her glowing, fresh and blooming com- 
plexion. And added to these merely physical 
charms, the child possessed a look of intelligence 
and comprehension beyond her years, and alto- 
gether made up a picture of loveliness which 
always attracted a second glance from any one 
who saw her. Young as she was, her mother, 
realizing in her own person the evils of a defective 
education, had commenced a course of instruction 
in which Mary took a deep interest and displayed 
a precocity and capability of acquiring knowledge 
which gave promise of the brightest future for her. 
But alas ! how vain are all merely human calcula- 
tions. By the events in store for her, and which 


24 


CHRISTLIKE. 


will be unfolded in the course of our story, the 
brightness of her horizon was to be obscured by 
clouds so dense and dark that we contemplate 
them with shuddering horror, and only wonder 
that by the force of her own inherent purity and 
strength of character she was enabled to soar 
above them at the last, into an atmosphere of 
purity and nobleness which many whose lots have 
been cast in more propitious circumstances will 
vainly seek to emulate. 

Mrs. Smith was buried, and, with the closing of 
the earth above her coffin, everything — save only 
the golden links of memory’s chain — which bound. 
Mary to her past life. Father and mother were 
both gone — other friends she had none — hence- 
forth she was to know but the love of her adopted 
father and mother — the latter being such love as a 
sordid and brutal task-master metes out to those 
who are so unfortunate as to be the victims of his 
tyranny. But we will reserve for another chapter 
the events of the next two years of her life. 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


25 


CHAPTER II. 

Two YEARS have passed away since the advent 
of Mary to the family of Dr. Brown. And during 
all that time Mrs. Brown has omitted no opportu- 
nity of manifesting the hatred and ill-will toward 
the child which she had conceived on the morning 
when she was first led home by Dr. Brown. Com- 
pelled to perform the most menial tasks, almost 
without intermission, from morning till night ; clad 
in insufficient garments of the coarsest texture ; 
beaten ofttimes with most merciless cruelty, for 
the most trivial offences of omission or commis- 
sion ; often punished for slight transgression by 
being starved during the entire day — her lot was 
in truth a most miserable one, and but for the love 
of her adopted father, and of the Irish cook, Kit- 
ty, upon whose susceptible heart her rare beauty 
and sweet, childish ways had made an indelible 
impression, her life would have been devoid of a 
single ray of sunlight. But Dr. Brown was much 
of the time from home, his large and lucrative 
practice demanding his constant attention, and 
besides he was powerless to restrain his wife in 
her systematic persecution of the helpless orphan. 
Old Kitty, too, though she often felt her blood boil 
at the injustice with which her little pet was 
treated, was unable to shield her. All she could 
do was to sympathize with her in secret, and at 


26 


CHRISTLIKE. 


times of starvation supply her by stealth with the 
food of which she was deprived by Mrs. Brown’s 
unnatural and fiendish cruelty. 

Dr. Bay was a professional rival of Dr. Brown’s, 
but between them naught but the most friendly 
feelings ever existed. Both were well-educated, 
large-hearted men, equally devoted to their pro- 
fession, and alike masters of the art of healing. 
And their rivalry was of the peculiar kind which, 
so far from producing any ill-feeling between 
them, but served to bind them more closely to- 
gether. Neither was ever jealous of the success 
or envied the prosperity of the other — as good Dr. 
Brown used to say when his shrewish wife tried, 
as she often did, to excite some envious feelings 
toward his competitor in his mind, “ the world was 
wide enough for both ” — each felt this truth, and 
each was content to witness the prosperity of the 
other, rejoicing thereat as much as over his own. 

Not so the ladies of the two households, how- 
ever. Mrs. Bay on her part possessed the same 
generous and noble feelings which animated her 
husband, but the peculiarity of Mrs. Brown’s dis- 
position was such as to preclude all intercourse 
between them. Regarding Dr. Bay with feelings 
of the most intense hatred, as the rival and ene- 
my of her husband, she could not treat with com- 
mon respect any one connected with him ; and 
despite Mrs. Bay’s efforts to conciliate her friend- 
ship, her feelings had been so often and offensive- 
ly displayed that the good lady had given up the 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


27 


task in despair, and for a long time no intercourse 
had taken place between them, not even so much 
as speaking when they met by accident in the 
street. 

One raw day in the early part of December, 
Mrs. Bay heard a child crying in a field near her 
house, which stood in the outskirts of the village. 
For a time she paid little attention to it, but her 
sympathies being at last aroused, she went into 
the field, and there, sitting upon the ground, cry- 
ing and almost perishing with cold, she found our 
little heroine. She was barefooted and bare- 
headed, and had on but a thin calico gown, with 
no under-clothing of any kind. 

“Why, my child,” said the good-hearted lady, 
approaching her, “ what is the matter, and what 
are you doing here ?” 

“ Oh ! lady,” said the little girl, speaking with 
difficulty amid her sobs, I came to drive home 
the cows, and I am so cold I cannot walk. 
What shall I do?” 

“ Come with me,” said Mrs. Bay, her heart 
touched by the pitiful condition of the wretched 
little being before her, “ and I will warm you 
and give you some clothes.” 

And as she spoke she took her by the hand and 
raised her to her feet, but she was so benumbed 
with cold that she could not stand. Mrs. Bay was 
now really alarmed, and hastily‘calling a servant 
she ordered him to carry the little girl to her 
house. She was in a most pitiable condition. 


30 


CHRISTLIKE. 


ters. But there was no help for it, and she sped 
on her way, assured of sympathy with her suffer- 
ings and delight at her good fortune from at least 
one person in the household. Honest old Kitty 
she knew would rejoice in her acquisitions, and ta 
her she gave her first attention. 

‘‘ Oh ! Kitty, Kitty,” she cried, bounding in 
highest glee into the kitchen where Kitty was at 
work; “see my new clothes. A warm flannel 
dress, and nice, warm skirts, and my new shoes 
and stockings. And, Kitty, see what a nice, warm 
hood and cloak. Don’t I look nice ? and, oh ! I am 
so comfortable — I don’t care for the cold now.” 

Old Kitty eyed her without speaking for a few 
moments. She was older than the little girl who 
was so much pleased with her improved personal 
appearance, and she could not share in her exul- 
tation. She had known Mrs. Brown a long time, 
and she anticipated a scene when she first saw 
the new clothes. 

“Where have you been?” she said at last, 
“ and where did you get all them nice things ? ” 

“ Oh, a rich lady gave them to me. I was sit- 
ting down in the cow-pasture and was most froze, 
and the lady came out from a nice brick house 
close by the pasture, and took me home with her 
and washed me and combed my hair, just as my 
mother used to, and then she put all these things 
on me and sent me home. Isn’t she a nice lady? 
Oh ! but I do love her.” 

But Kitty shook her head doubtingly. She 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


31 


knew from the child’s description of the place 
that it was Mrs. Bay who had thus befriended 
her, and knowing her mistress’ feelings toward 
that lady, she feared that her well-meant kind- 
ness would result in anything but good to Mary. 
And she was right. Before she had time to reply, 
the door was thrown violently open, and Mrs. 
Brown entered. 

“Well, you little huzzy!” said she, her eyes 
fairly blazing, “you have got back at last, have 
you? Where have you been? Begging, I should 
think. Where did you get those clothes you have 
on?” and she slapped the child first on one side 
of the head and then on the other. 

Mary told her that a rich lady gave them to 
her, and wanted her to come and live with her. 

At this Mrs. Brown was more enraged than ever, 
and again she turned upon the helpless child. 

“Go this minute, and take off every stitch of 
that clothing,” she fairly screamed. “Take off 
everything, and put on your own clothes. They 
are good enough for a beggar like you.” 

“Madam,” said Mary, turning her own bright 
eyes, which now flashed like lightning, full upon 
Mrs. Brown’s face, “I will not take off these 
clothes, and you dare not make me do it. It was 
Mrs. Dr. Bay who gave them to me, and if you 
make me take them off I will run away and 
go and live with her. And you know very well 
what she would think of you.” 

This threat was not without its effect. Intensely 


S2 


CHRISTLIKE. 


as Mrs. Brown hated Mrs. Bay, she did not care 
about taking the risk of sending Mary back to her 
stripped of her bounty, and she forebore to press 
the matter. 

“ Go, rock Ella, you imp,” she cried, “ and do 
not let me hear a word out of your head. And 
bear in mind,” she hissed through her clinched 
teeth, with the look and accent of a demon, ‘'you 
are not to have a bite of dinner or supper, and 
when you go to bed to-night I will settle with you 
for your impudence. Go and rock the cradle, and 
if you let Ella cry, I will skin you alive.” 

And to her sorrow poor Mary found that Mrs. 
Brown was indulging in no idle threat, for the day 
wore away — dinner time and supper time came, 
but no morsel of food passed the lips of the half- 
famished child. Her tyrant mistress still burned 
with wrath against her, and was determined to 
vent that wrath even though the child were starved 
to death in so doing. But still her victim’s heart 
was light. She remembered Mrs. Bay’s kind 
words and tender tones, and she felt sure Kitty 
would bring her some supper as soon as she could 
do so without Mrs. Brown’s knowledge. Nine o’clock 
came and Mary was sent to her own room with the 
assurance that she should have a horse-whipping 
as soon as she was undressed. And, true to her 
demonaic promise, Mrs. Brown repaired to her 
room armed with a large cowhide, and there, upon 
the person of that helpless girl of eight years of 
age, was enacted a scene of brutality which would 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


33 


make the veriest slave driver who ever trod south- 
ern soil blush with shame. Detaining Mary with 
one hand, despite her screams, struggles and 
appeals for mercy, she plied the whip with the 
other until the child ceased to struggle, and the 
blood was flowing in streams from her lacerated 
back and shoulders, when flinging her from her to 
one corner of the room, she repaired to her own 
room and there slept as calmly as though nothing 
unusual had transpired. 

No sooner had she left the room than Kitty, who 
had been listening with the most agonized feelings 
to the scene being enacted within, entered, and 
spoke to the child, who still lay where Mrs. Brown 
in her brutal rage had thrown her. But no answer 
was returned. Helpless, motionless she lay — not 
even a groan attested the intensity of her sufier- 
ings. Kitty was terrifled beyond measure, and 
raising the lifeless body in her arms, she flew 
through the streets in the direction of Dr. Bay’s 
residence. Arriving there she rang the bell with 
an energy and vehemence which startled the doc- 
tor and his good lady, who were about retiring for 
the night. As soon as the door was opened Kitty 
rushed in, and depositing her lifeless burden on a 
sofa, exclaimed with true Irish warmth : 

“She is dead, and Mrs. Brown has murdered 
her. She shall hang for it if my evidence is suffi- 
cient to have justice done her.” 

Mrs. Bay at once recognized the immovable flg- 
3 


32 


CHRISTLIKE. 


as Mrs. Brown hated Mrs. Bay, she did not care 
about taking the risk of sending Mary back to her 
stripped of her bounty, and she forebore to press 
the matter. 

“ Go, rock Ella, you imp,” she cried, “ and do 
not let me hear a word out of your head. And 
bear in mind,” she hissed through her clinched 
teeth, with the look and accent of a demon, ‘'you 
are not to have a bite of dinner or supper, and 
when you go to bed to-night I will settle with you 
for your impudence. Go and rock the cradle, and 
if you let Ella cry, I will skin you alive.” 

And to her sorrow poor Mary found that Mrs. 
Brown was indulging in no idle threat, for the day 
wore away — dinner time and supper time came, 
but no morsel of food passed the lips of the half- 
famished child. Her tyrant mistress still burned 
with wrath against her, and was determined to 
vent that wrath even though the child were starved 
to death in so doing. But still her victim’s heart 
was light. She remembered Mrs. Bay’s kind 
words and tender tones, and she felt sure Kitty 
would bring her some supper as soon as she could 
do so without Mrs. Brown’s knowledge. Nine o’clock 
came and Mary was sent to her own room with the 
assurance that she should have a horse-whipping 
as soon as she was undressed. And, true to her 
demonaic promise, Mrs. Brown repaired to her 
room armed with a large cowhide, and there, upon 
the person of that helpless girl of eight years of 
age, was enacted a scene of brutality which would 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


33 


make the veriest slave driver who ever trod south- 
ern soil blush with shame. Detaining Mary with 
one hand, despite her screams, struggles and 
appeals for mercy, she plied the whip with the 
other until the child ceased to struggle, and the 
blood was flowing in streams from her lacerated 
back and shoulders, when flinging her from her to 
one corner of the room, she repaired to her own 
room and there slept as calmly as though nothing 
unusual had transpired. 

No sooner had she left the room than Kitty, who 
had been listening with the most agonized feelings 
to the scene being enacted within, entered, and 
spoke to the child, who still lay where Mrs. Brown 
in her brutal rage had thrown her. But no answer 
was returned. Helpless, motionless she lay — not 
even a groan attested the intensity of her suffer- 
ings. Kitty was terrifled beyond measure, and 
raising the lifeless body in her arms, she flew 
through the streets in the direction of Dr. Bay’s 
residence. Arriving there she rang the bell with 
an energy and vehemence which startled the doc- 
tor and his good lady, who were about retiring for 
the night. As soon as the door was opened Kitty 
rushed in, and depositing her lifeless burden on a 
sofa, exclaimed with true Irish warmth : 

“She is dead, and Mrs. Brown has murdered 
her. She shall hang for it if my evidence is suffi- 
cient to have justice done her.” 

Mrs. Bay at once recognized the immovable flg- 
3 


34 


CHRISTLIKE. 


lire before her as the object of her bounty in the 
earlier part of the day, and was so much horror- 
stricken as to be incapable of thought or action. 
The doctor was more composed, and advancing to 
the inanimate form, he proceeded to make an ex- 
amination which soon convinced him that she was 
not dead but had only fainted, and he at once set 
to work to administer the proper restoratives, 
Kitty meanwhile returning to her own home. It 
was some time before Mary opened her eyes, and 
when she did she was found to be in a light fever, 
and for a long time her recovery was by the doc- 
tor and his good lady considered very doubtful, 
but by the most unwearied attention and careful 
nursing she was at length restored to complete 
health, when she was formally adopted by Dr. 
Bay, with the sanction of the orphans’ court. 

But to return for a brief period to Mrs. Brown. 
The next morning after her brutal treatment of 
Mary, when the girl failed to make her appear- 
ance at the usual hour, she went in great wrath to 
call her, intending to visit her with still further 
chastisement for her contumacy, as she was pleased 
to term it, but to her astonishment she was no- 
where to be found. Suspecting that Kitty, whom 
she knew had protected her on several occasions 
from threatened violence, was responsible for this 
disappearance, she repaired at once to the kitchen 
and demanded of that worthy her whereabouts, to 
which Kitty replied : 

“ Shure, ma’am, and she be dead. You killed 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


35 


her in that awful batin’ you gave her last night, 
and I’ll soon see your ladyship hung for the foul 
murder.” 

Of course Mrs. Brown did not believe a word of 
it, and she was on the point of giving Kitty “ a 
piece of her mind,” when, without ringing the bell, 
or other ceremony, an officer entered the room, and 
walking up to Mrs. Brown laid his hand on her 
shoulder. 

“ You are my prisoner,” said he, and producing 
a warrant for her arrest he proceeded to read it in 
her hearing, but before it was finished she had 
fainted and fallen to the floor, for she saw in this 
advent of the officer only the verification of the 
prediction to which her servant had just given 
vent. She was, however, soon restored to her 
senses, and, entering a carriage with the officer, in 
company with her husband, was driven to tlm 
office of a magistrate, Kitty being at the same time 
taken along as a witness. On arriving there they 
found Dr. Bay waiting for them, for it was at his 
instance that the warrant had been issued, and 
from him Mrs. Brown learned that Mary was not 
dead. 

She was formally charged by Dr. Bay (for so 
strongly were his feelings aroused by her brutality 
that not even his friendship for Dr. Brown could 
restrain him) with a brutal and outrageous assault 
upon Mary, and the trial proceeded. Kitty testi- 
fied to the violence of the beating: that it was 
done with a large horsewhip, and that when Mrs. 


36 


CHRISTLIKE. 


Brown left her, she (witness) had carried her to the 
house of Dr. Bay, supposing her at the time to be 
dead. Dr. Bay deposed to her being brought to 
his house about ten o’clock at night by Kitty, in- 
sensible and covered with blood ; that one of her 
ribs was broken, her back frightfully lacerated, 
one eye severely injured as if by a blow from a 
whip, and other serious ^injuries on her person. 
He further testified that she was very ill from the 
effects of the beating, and that he regarded her 
recovery as somewhat doubtful. 

The defense was insanity, and Dr. Brown’s 
wealth, and his wife’s peculiarities of temper and 
disposition were sufficient to establish it, and she 
went scot free, much to the disgust of good, honest 
Kitty, who persisted in loudly protesting that 
“ the haythin who would bate such a swate child 
as she had Mary, ought to be hung anyway.” Of 
course it could not be expected that she would 
remain with Mrs. Brown after the feeling she had 
displayed in regard to this prosecution, and she, 
too, went to make her home with Mrs. Bay. 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


37 


CHAPTER III. 

For the next few years the life of Mary pre- 
sents no incidents of special interest. As has 
already been stated, Dr. Bay had adopted her with 
all the formalities of the law, and she soon learn- 
ed to regard them (as we will hereafter call them,) 
as her parents, and surely their treatment of her 
was all that she could have anticipated or wished 
had they been her own instead of her adopted par- 
ents. Their means enabled them to gratify every 
proper wish of hers, and in their kind and judi- 
cious conduct towards her they soon effaced from 
her guileless spirit the recollections of the cruelty 
of her former mistress. 

It must not be understood by the reader that 
Dr. and Mrs. Bay at all times and under all cir- 
cumstances complied with the wishes of their 
child without regard to their reasonableness — far 
from it. Although they poured out upon her the 
full measure of their hearts’ affection, their good 
sense and discretion were too great to permit them 
to fall into the error, so often committed by par- 
ents, of regarding her will and her inclination, 
however capricious, as the first thing to be consid- 
ered at all times. 

There are two classes of parents in the world, 
either of which wholly fail to comprehend their 
duty in the rearing and education of their off- 


38 


CHRISTLIKE. 


spring. Indeed, it seems sometimes as though 
their special mission was to ruin their children, 
body and soul forever, instead of fitting them for 
true happiness here and hereafter. No better 
schemes could be devised than those adopted by 
the two classes to which reference is here made, 
and both of which are equally pernicious in their 
results. 

The first class are those who deem it a sufficient 
reason for refusing or condemning anything, sim- 
ply that their children desire or affect it, who 
make it a point never to comply with the wishes 
of their offspring when they can possibly avoid 
it, whose whole code of family government is 
tinged with almost the severity of the Draconian 
laws, who appeal to no higher motive to secure the 
obedience and duty of their children than their 
sense of fear, who tell you gravely that a child’s 
spirit must be broken ere you can control it, and 
whose favorite admonition to their offspring is, “If 
you do that again. I’ll skin you alive !” Oh ! be- 
ware, parents, how you adopt this cruel and cheer- 
less system of government. Be assured that if 
you do, it will be entirely owing to the providence 
of God if your child does not “ bring down your 
gray hairs with sorrow to the grave.” By your 
systematic thwartings of his childish inclinations 
and desires you cow his temper, and by the con- 
stant and unnecessarily severe exercise of your 
authority, you turn the sentiment, which otherwise 
would be the purest and most enduring love, 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


39 


springing up into everlasting life in his little 
heart, into something very much resembling the 
smouldering fire of hate, scorching and consuming 
all his better nature, and in time he comes (and 
very justly, too,) to regard you as his most inde- 
fatigable enemy instead of the true friend and 
counselor and guide that you should be. And 
when this point has been reached, your child is 
ready for any deed of evil, all the more readily 
embraced and performed because he knows that 
he is thereby running counter to your wishes. 

How often have we heard fathers say — aye, and 
mothers, too — and not unfrequently in the hearing 
of their children, “ I do believe mine are the worst 
children in the world. It really seems as though 
they tried to go contrary to my express wishes in 
everything.” Ah ! father and mother, examine 
your own conduct towards those whom you cen- 
sure so bitterly, and see if they have not some rea- 
son to say the same of you. Have you never, 
capriciously and without reason, checked their in- 
nocent, harmless, childish amusement, and wrung 
their little hearts with sorrow without any motive 
which they could understand, or without any cause 
save that you had the power, and could thereby 
show your authority over them ? Have you never 
sternly and abruptly refused any request, the 
granting of which would have made your child in- 
finitely happy and caused no inconvenience or 
injury to yourself or any one else, merely because 
you happened to be in bad humor, because some- 


40 


CHRISTLIKE. 


thing in your business alfairs had gone wrong, or 
for some other reason totally disconnected with 
family affairs, or for no reason at all ? Have you 
never punished your children with unreasonable 
severity for something entirely harmless in itself, 
and which you only chose to construe into some 
contempt of your authority ? If you have done 
these things constantly and regularly, depend 
upon it, there lies the secret of your children being 
so much worse than your neighbor’s. 

It is far from being our purpose to advocate the 
theory that parents should never exercise any 
authority or restraint over their children. This 
were a fault equally pernicious with the one we 
have been considering, and this leads us to spenk 
of that other class to which allusion has already 
been made. 

They are those, not unfrequently met, who seem 
at all times and under all circumstances to regard 
the inclinations of their children as suprema lex^ 
who are never able to say “ no !” to anything the 
child may ask, who visit the most heinous offenses, 
or the most direct violations of parental authority 
with no punishment of greater severity than a few 
words of gentle remonstrance, which, from the 
tone and manner of their delivery, have, beyond 
the moment in which they are uttered, no effect 
upon the child, who straightway repeats his of- 
fense, and again receives the same punishment. 
The child, trained and educated in this way, in 
due time comes to regard his own will, as his par- 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


41 


ents have done before him, as the only guide to 
his actions, and when this point has been reached, 
this child, like the other, is on the high road to 
ruin. For in time he will come to apply this same 
principle to his intercourse with the world beyond 
his own family circle, and then let it occasion no 
surprise if he end his career in the prison or on 
the gibbet. 

Between these two extremes lies the happy 
mean where the will of the parent, not capricious 
and not uncontrolled, but tempered with reason, 
judgment, justice and a due regard for the feeling 
and frailties of childhood, is the standard, where 
a mixture of love and firmness, sustained at all 
times by the most perfect truthfulness toward the 
child, are the means used to induce, and, if need 
be, to enforce obedience ; where the parent deals 
with the child as though both were reasonable 
beings, and never suffers his action to be infiu- 
enced by passion or prejudice, but calmly hears 
and judges; where punishment of any kind, when 
necessary, is inflicted by the parent with modera- 
tion and kindness, ever from a sense of duty, and 
not in a spirit of vindictiveness or revenge, and in 
that mode and to that extent only which, in the 
judgment of the parent, is best calculated to effect 
the object in view : the correction of the error into 
which the child has fallen. No parent ever yet 
successfully governed a child unless he occupied 
just this mean, and had the most perfect control 
of his temper when dealing with his children, and 


42 


CHRISTLIKE. 


this was just the position occupied by Dr. Bay and 
his excellent wife. 

Under their kind and judicious training Mary 
grew up ; and as circling years added develop- 
ment to her form and strength to her intellect, she 
was the delight and pride of her adopted parents, 
and won the love of all who knew her. The edu- 
cation which had been begun by her mother, but 
which had been almost totally neglected at Mrs. 
Brown’s, was resumed by Mrs. Bay, and she dis- 
played the same capacity and fondness for the ac- 
quisition of knowledge which had marked her 
earlier years. And thus she went on, each day 
adding something to the stores of her mind, until 
she had attained the age of fourteen years, when 
it was decided by her parents to send her to a 
boarding-school to complete her education. Oh ! 
fatal determination. Could they have foreseen 
what the consequences of this ill-advised step 
would be, how much rather would they have seen 
her enclosed in “ the narrow house appointed for 
all the living,” than have thus sent her out from 
beneath the sheltering folds of their affectionate 
protection. 

As for Mary, she was almost wild with delight 
at the thought of going to school. True, it would 
involve separation from her much loved parents, 
and this reflection gave a tinge of sadness to her 
otherwise radiant visions, but there she would in- 
dulge her brightest anticipations relative to the 
acquisition of learning, and fully slake her thirst 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


43 


at the fountain of knowledge, and to one of her 
temperament and disposition, this were an ample 
compensation for all the pangs of separation. She 
therefore eagerly embraced the proposition, made 
by her mother, to go to a private boarding-school, 
kept by a Mr. and Mrs. Shepley, in the town of 
Huntingdon, something • over one hundred miles 
from her home, and for the next two or three 
weeks she was very busy with preparations for 
her journey. The doctor, meanwhile, had corre- 
sponded with the principal of the school and se- 
cured her admission there, and all arrangements 
were made for her becoming an inmate of the in- 
stitution at the opening of the fall term, which be- 
gun in September. 

At last came the time for her to leave her dearly 
loved and cherished home, and for the first time 
Mary regarded with something of regret the change 
she was about making, and with a sort of indefin- 
able dread looked forward to the period when she 
should be deprived of her mother’s guardian care 
and watchfulness. Was it a presentiment of com- 
ing evil ? Slowly and sadly she wandered about 
the house, taking a last look at every dear place 
upon which memory would fondly linger in her 
hours of absence, and bidding farewell to all the 
pets from which she was to be so long separated. 
And when she finally entered the carriage to be 
driven to the railway station, it was with difficulty 
that she restrained her tears, notwithstanding the 
presence of her parents, both of whom were to 


44 


CHRISTLIKE. 


accompany her to her new home. She felt as if 
she was leaving forever all that was dear to her in 
this world, to enter upon a new and untried sphere, 
of whose danger and toils she was entirely igno- 
rant, and which she would be compelled to encoun- 
ter without the support and guidance of that 
maternal affection which had been her stay and 
her shield for the last six years. What wonder 
that in her inmost soul she shrank from the en- 
counter ? 

In due time they arrived at the town of Hunt- 
ingdon, and Mary was introduced in form to the 
proprietors of her new home. The school was 
very pleasantly located, and Mary was charmed 
with the kind and genial bearing of Mr. and Mrs. 
Shepley. They were old acquaintances of Dr. 
Bay — a circumstance of which Mary had till then 
been ignorant — and this fact, added to the attrac- 
tions of the place, and their evident kindness and 
disposition to make her comfortable, did much to 
dispel the gloom which had hung around her upon 
her arrival. 

Mr. and Mrs. Bay remained over night at the 
school, completed the few arrangements necessary 
to insure, as they fondly supposed, her comfort 
and welfare, and then with a tender kiss of paren- 
tal love and affection, left her for home. And it 
was when they were gone that Mary felt in all its 
force the loneliness of her situation. She was 
among entire strangers-— the mother upon whom 
she was wont to lean for advice and encourage- 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


45 


ment was far away, and she, with all her inexperi- 
ence of the world and all her ignorance of the 
dangers and temptations which could beset her, 
must now stand or fall alone. But Mr. and Mrs. 
Shepley proved themselves to be friends indeed, 
and she very soon came to feel herself quite at 
home and at her ease with them. 

She was to remain at this school for three years, 
only visiting her home during vacations. The 
time seemed very long, but then she would hear 
from them often, could visit them two or three 
times during each year, and would she not be fully 
compensated in the end by the splendid education 
she was determined to achieve during the time? 
So Mary reasoned within herself, and thus reason- 
ing she quietly settled down to her allotted tasks, 
fully resolved that, if by any effort of hers it 
could be prevented, her parents should never have 
occasion to regret having sent her there. 

Her parents meantime returned home, but very 
sad and lonely seemed the old house. The very 
sunlight seemed to have gone out of it with the 
departure of Mary. Her voice was no longer 
heard gayly caroling as she skipped from room to 
room; her eager, gladsome face and bright smile 
no longer greeted the old doctor as he returned in 
the evening from his daily round of visits, and 
ever and anon Mrs. Bay found herself starting 
into the garden in search of her lost darling. Her 
husband was much of the time away from home, 
and this loneliness became at last so insupport- 


46 


CHRISTLIKE. 


able to Mrs. Bay that she sent for a nephew of the 
doctor’s to come and make his home with them. 

Henry Bay was at this time about twenty-one 
years of age, and was a fine-looking, well-edu- 
cated young man. He was the son of a deceased 
brother of the doctor; had been left an orphan 
very young by the death of both his parents 
within a few weeks of each other ; had been reared 
by them, and was a great favorite of Mrs. Bay. 
He had seen Mary once when he was on a visit to 
his uncle and aunt at a time when she was about 
ten years old, but he had but little recollection of 
her, and when Mrs. Bay in her letter to him told 
him that Mary had left them for a time, he could 
hardly remember for the moment who Mary was. 

Mrs. Bay’s letter reached him at a most oppor- 
tune moment. He had been for some time engaged 
in the study of the law, and had pursued it with 
so much energy and avidity as seriously to impair 
his health, and render relaxation for a time a 
matter of absolute necessity. He therefore deter- 
mined to accept her invitation without delay, at 
least for a season, and, bidding adieu to Coke and 
Blackstone, to endeavor to regain in the salubri- 
ous clime of Western Pennsylvania the health 
which was so necessary to the successful preserva- 
tion of the plan he had marked out for his future 
career. And in due time he arrived at Kittaning, 
where he was welcomed by Mrs. Bay with as 
much earnestness as if he had been her own, in- 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


47 


Stead of merely her foster-son, and immediately 
installed in the best room of the mansion. 

“Why, Harry,” said the old lady, when the first 
warm greeting was over, “how tall and manly 
you have grown. But you ought to be ashamed 
of yourself for staying away as long as you have. 
Just to think, it is four years since you were here, 
and poor Mary inquiring every few days when 
cousin Harry was coming again.” 

“How, my good aunt-mother,” said the young 
man, laughing, “ don’t commence your fiattery so 
soon, or I shall surely leave Kittaning and hasten 
back to Philadelphia by the first train. Your 
love is very grateful to me, and the thing I most 
highly prize on earth, but I cannot stand fiattery.” 

“Are you very sure the love of your aunt- 
mother, as you call her, is the one most highly 
prized by you?” said the old lady, archly. “Are 
you sure there is not some other love prized as 
high or higher than hers ? ” 

“Indeed I am, my dear mother,” he replied, 
kindly and reverently taking her hand and press- 
it to his lips. “Ho one ever has or ever can 
divide your empire over my heart, my more than 
mother,” said he, his eyes moistening at the recol- 
lection of all her goodness to him in days past 
and gone. 

The good lady felt her own eyes moisten as she 
marked the humidity of his, and hastily turning 
away without further remark she sought her own 
room, there to pour out her soul in thankfulness 


48 


CHRISTLIKE. 


to the Father of all for having so blessed to his 
eternal good the teachings which she had striven 
long years before to instill into his youthful mind. 
Yerily she had cast her bread upon the waters, 
and now, after many days, it was returned to her 
again, with more than four-fold increase. 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


49 


CHAPTER ly. 

When Mary had been at school about two 
months, Mrs. Bay concluded, in company with 
Harry, to pay her a visit, partly because she wanted 
to see how she was getting along, and partly be- 
cause she desired to renew the acquaintance 
between the two young people. For, mere child as 
Mary still was, Mrs. Bay had already indulged a 
hope, or, perhaps to speak more precisely, a wish, 
that she might at some day be related to her by 
other and dearer ties than those of adoption. Let 
no one accuse the good old lady of being a match- 
maker, for she was not, but she loved both her 
foster children dearly, and would have done any- 
thing to promote their welfare and happiness. 
She knew them both good and pure and noble, and 
felt that their dispositions were such as would suit 
each other, and if they should happen to love and 
finally wed, she felt assured then, and conse- 
quently her happiness would be enhanced there- 
by. Let no one, therefore, condemn her for this 
innocent attempt to further the dearest wish of her 
heart. 

Notice of the intended visit and of the day of 
their arrival was dispatched to Mary, and in due 
time Harry and his aunt mother ” arrived at the 
railroad depot in Huntingdon, where they found 
4 


50 


CHRISTLIKE. 


Mary awaiting them, accompanied by one of the 
teachers of the school, a Miss Davilla, and a very 
intelligent, sensible girl. As soon as the cere- 
mony of introduction had been mutually per- 
formed, they entered the Shepley carriage, which 
was in waiting, and in a few minutes were set 
down at the boarding-house, where a hearty wel- 
come and warm supper awaited them. But noth- 
ing could exceed the astonishment of Harry Bay 
at the change in Mary’s appearance. He only 
remembered her as a sprightly little elf of ten 
years, whose merry grimaces and quaint mirth 
were sufficient at any time to upset the utmost 
degree of gravity he might assume, and he had 
expected to find her, although about fifteen, still a 
little girl wearing short dresses, playing with dolls 
and the like. ]^ay, he had even gone so far as to 
provide himself with sundry and divers childish 
presents with which to win his way to her infan- 
tile heart, and when, instead of the little sprite 
which his fancy had conjured up, he beheld a tall 
and graceful young woman, beautiful as a Hebe, 
and of almost queenly bearing, he was so over- 
whelmed with surprise as hardly to be able to 
treat her with ordinary gallantry and politeness. 
And anon occurred to him the recollection of the 
ridiculous character of the presents he had pro- 
vided for her, and it was with the utmost difficulty 
that he restrained himself from laughing in her 
face, as they sat opposite each other at tea table. 

When the meal was finished and they had with- 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


51 


drawn to the sitting-room, Mary challenged her 
cousin, as she called Harry, although in no degree 
related to him, to a game of draughts, saying 
laughingly that he used to beat her badly, but 
now she thought she was a match for him. He 
accepted her good-natured challenge and they 
withdrew to one corner of the room while Mr. and 
Mrs. Shepley, Mrs. Bay and Miss Davilla seated 
themselves near the fire and engaged in conversa- 
tion. While they were arranging the men, Mary 
asked, in a low tone : 

“ What was the matter with you at the tea table, 
cousin Harry ? I observed that you were very 
much amused at something, and am very anxious 
to know what you found in our really very pleas- 
ant home to excite your mirth to such a degree.” 

“ It was nothing that I found here. I was only 
laughing at my own thoughts,” replied Harry, 
somewhat confusedly, and coloring slightly, for he 
had hoped that no one had noticed his uninten- 
tional display. 

“And pray, of what were you thinking? ” per- 
sisted Mary. “You must tell me so that I can 
share your merriment, for I dearly love to laughV’ 
said she, breaking into a little ripple of mirth 
which Harry thought was the sweetest music he 
had ever heard. For it must be confessed that 
Mary’s rare beauty had sadly enchanted him, and 
that even in this brief time he had fallen deeply in 
love with his “ fair cousin.” 

Harry at first refused to gratify her curiosity. 


52 


CHRISTLIKE. 


but SO persistently did she urge him to the reve- 
lation, that at last he made a clean breast of the 
whole matter — told her he had pictured her as a 
little girl in short dresses, what preparations he 
had made to win her esteem, and all that, and that 
when, instead of a little girl, he had found a beau- 
tiful young woman, the ridiculousness of his posi- 
tion had come across his mind, and caused the ill- 
concealed mirth she had witnessed. It was now 
her time to be embarrassed for a moment, but she 
speedily rallied and insisted that he should give 
her the presents, notwithstanding the mistake, 
saying she would always keep them as mementos 
of the best and most gallant cousin any one ever 
had. ‘‘And now,” said she, “ that matter is fully 
and amicably settled.” 

But her merriment only confused Harry the 
more, and he muttered something about “ not feel- 
ing very well,” which Mary at once understood as 
a mere excuse. 

“ I will see what is the matter,” said Mrs. Bay, 
coming up and seating herself by the side of the 
young man. “ Why, Harry, what does ail you ? ” 
she continued pleasantly. They continued in 
conversation for several minutes, when some 
one suggested it was bedtime, and they sepa- 
rated to their respective rooms. But it was 
long before poor Harry could compose him- 
self to sleep. His mind was full of Mary, and it 
soon became apparent to himself that he was hope- 
lessly in love with her. The vision of her bright 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


53 


beauty was constantly before him, enchanting his 
senses and obscuring every other object, while her 
innocence and childish sweetness, and the high 
character given her by Mrs. Bay, had completed 
the captivity. Of course he had no thought of 
marrying her at present — she was too young to 
assume the relation of wife — but before yielding 
himself to the influences of the drowsy god, he had 
fully made up his mind to woo, and, if possible, 
win her when her school term should have expired. 
And with this resolve firmly fixed in his mind he 
sought his pillow and was soon in the land 
dreams. 

The thoughts of Mary were far difierent from 
those of Mr. Bay, as she sought her room that 
night. Her chief feeling was one of disappoint- 
ment because Mr. Bay had not accompanied the 
party from her home. Not that she loved him 
any better than she did her mother, but when she 
was informed of the contemplated visit, no intima- 
tion had been given of his remaining at home, and 
she had fully expected to see him. And thus ex- 
pecting, she had prepared a little memento of 
filial affection in the shape of a finely-embroidered 
necktie, and after all he did not come. The 
excuse given by her mother for his absence, 
although a very good one, was far from setting 
her mind at ease. A violent and fearful epidemic 
was raging in the vicinity of Kittaning, and 
numerous deaths were the result of its visitation, 
and the doctor felt that his duty to his patrons 


54 


CHRISTLIKE. 


forbade his leaving home, even for a very short 
period, and though she realized and appreciated 
the motive \vhich kept him at home, her disap- 
pointment was none the less keen, and besides, 
what assurance had she that, thus mingling con- 
stantly with the fatal disease, he would not him- 
self fall a victim to its malignity ? 

While she was thus musing upon this subject, 
her thoughts were interrupted by a low tap at the 
door, and upon opening it she was somewhat sur- 
prised to find Mrs. Bay. 

“Why, mamma,” said she, opening wide her 
brilliant hazel eyes with surprise, “I supposed 
you were asleep long before this time.” 

“ Oh, no, my daughter, I thought I would come 
and sleep with you,” replied her mother. 

“ I am so glad you did, dear mamma,” replied 
the loving girl ; “ I wanted to have a good, quiet 
visit with you before you went home, and now is 
just the time.” 

Long time the mother and daughter passed in 
loving converse ere they yielded themselves to the 
influence of Morpheus. Mrs. Bay had many in- 
quiries to make of Mary regarding her new home, 
the school, the progress she was making in her 
studies, and the like, and Mary on her part was 
none the less desirous of learning everything that 
had taken place in and about Kittaning since tlie 
day when, almost in tears, she had bid it adieu, 
as it then seemed to her, forever. After all ques- 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


55 


tions on these subjects had been asked and an- 
swered, Mrs. Bay said : 

“Well, my dear child, how do you like your 
cousin Harry ? ” 

“ Oh ! really, I think he is splendid. He is so 
good-looking, and I am sure he is as good and 
kind as he looks,” replied Mary, enthusiastically. 
“And then I am sure he is in love with Miss Davilla. 
Do you remember how he blushed when I only 
mentioned her name? I really wish they might 
love each other, for she is such a sweet girl.” 

“You are very much mistaken about his being 
in love with her,” said Mrs. Bay, quietly. “ He 
has hardly spoken to her or looked at her since 
he has been here. But who and what is she ? ” 

“As you are already aware, she is one of the 
teachers in the school, and she is a sister of Mrs. 
Shepley. She has considerable property in her 
own right, but teaches from pure love of teaching. 
It is not necessary that she should follow this 
vocation, but her whole heart is in it, and hence 
she does.” 

“And doubtless she succeeds admirably. It is 
certain to be the case in any vocation. Whoever 
goes to any pursuit with a feeling as if he were 
being driven into it by necessity or other cause, 
against his will, rarely succeeds, while one who 
regards his occupation more in the light of a 
pleasure than a duty, will as rarely fail. There 
may be, and doubtless are, instances of men who 
have engaged in some given occupation from a 


56 


CHEISTLIKE. 


strong sense of duty, and have met with a reason- 
able degree of success ; but the general rule is as 
I have stated, and it will be found that where one 
has succeeded in an eminent degree in any voca- 
tion adopted from a sense of duty, that sense of 
duty has been so strong as to render obedience to 
its dictates a pleasure. But,” said Mrs. Bay, 
changing the subject, “who is the young gentle- 
man who sat opposite you at the tea table? I 
believe no one thought to introduce him to me.” 

“Oh! that was Mr. Jones, another one of the 
teachers, or rather the assistant superintendent of 
the school,” replied Mary. 

“ Do you like him ? ” asked Mrs. Bay, quietly. 

“Yes,” replied Mary, “I like him very well. 
He is very well educated and very entertaining, 
and seems to be a very excellent young man, and 
is a general favorite in the school.” 

“He may be all that you have painted him,” 
replied Mrs. Bay, seriously, “ but my heart sadly 
misgives me that you are mistaken. There is 
something in his general appearance I do not like, 
and on one or two occasions I thought I detected 
in his countenance a sort of cold, cynical expres- 
sion, indicative of selfishness and hypocrisy. He 
is not such a man as I would select for an inti- 
mate friend until I had tested him thoroughly. It 
is true I know nothing of him, and it may be that 
I speak from some unaccountable prejudice against 
him — some aversion for which there is no just 
cause.” 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


57 


“ I am quite sure, dear mamma, that such is the 
case,’’ replied the girl. “ No one connected with 
the school is more highly esteemed hy all than he, 
and I am sure your dislike has no foundation 
whatever. So please dismiss it, my dear mother. 
I think very highly of him, and I do not want my 
dear mamma to dislike any of my teachers,” said 
Mary, kissing her mother tenderly. 

“It may be as you say,” replied Mrs. Bay, quite 
mollified by the caress. “ I will try and dismiss 
my prejudice against him, in the face of your earn- 
est defense. I trust my little daughter has too 
much sense to be imposed upon, and of course you 
know much more of him than I do.” 

“ You will find, dear mother, that in this one 
instance you are wrong and I am right,” replied 
the girl, with another affectionate kiss. “If you 
ever become well acquainted with him you will 
like him as much as you dislike him now.” 

“It may be,” said the old lady ; “ and now shall 
we go to sleep ? I have some headache and fear I 
will not be quite well in the morning, if I lie 
awake all night.” 

“ Then by all means let us go to sleep. Good- 
night, mamma,” said the loving girl with another 
kiss. 

“ Good-night, my daughter, and may He who 
watches even the sparrows as they fall, ever have 
you in His holy keeping,” said the old lady, fer- 
vently, and in a few moments she was sound 
asleep. 


58 


CHRISTLIKE. 


But although. Mary had consented very readily 
to a discontinuance of the conversation, for she 
had her secret in regard to William Jones which 
she did not care to reveal to her mother (fatal mis- 
take !), she slept not fora long time. The conver- 
sation with her mother had awakened a train of 
thought which would not down at her bidding, and 
which for hours resisted the advances of the 
drowsy god as he sought in vain to enfold her in 
his strong embrace. She was thinking of her first 
intimate acquaintance with Jones ; of her moth- 
er’s prejudice against him; how unreasonable it 
seemed to her, and last, but by no means least, 
she was trying to analyze her own feelings toward 
him. But we will leave her thus for a moment, 
while, as William Jones will play a very import- 
ant part in this narrative, we give the reader a 
more particular introduction to him. 

William Jones was an orphan and a distant rel- 
ative of Mr. Shepley. He was born in the State 
of New York, and at the time of his presentation 
to the reader was about twenty-seven years of age. 
His father was the pastor of a small country par- 
ish, a very worthy and learned man, while his 
mother was a pious. God-fearing woman, and they 
had taken great pains in his young days to lay the 
foundation in his mind of a good education, and 
had sought earnestly to instill into his heart the 
purest precepts of morality and piety. But coun- 
try clergymen seldom amass much property, and 
when his parents died, within about six months of 


SAVE THE FALLEiS'. 


59 


each other, their son was left, at the age of about 
fourteen years, a penniless orphan. In this dilem- 
ma a brother of Mrs. Jones, a merchant in the 
great city of New York, took the boy into his 
family, and as William had great aptitude for 
learning anything he attempted, he sent him to 
school, intending to fit him for some one of the 
learned professions. But the uncle was too much 
immured in the labyrinths of business to give 
much attention to the moral culture of the boy — 
he imagined that when he boarded, clothed and 
lodged him, and paid without murmuring his quar- 
terly tuition bills, he was doing his full duty — 
and in that gigantic school and stronghold of vice, 
the commercial metropolis, the precepts of his 
father and mother, unrefreshed and uninforced, 
were but a feeble protection. He was just at the 
age when boys are most susceptible of evil influ- 
ences, and but a short time elapsed until he could 
handle cards, throw dice, toss off a bumper of 
whisky, or take the name of his Maker in vain as 
readily as any of his reckless associates. 

Nor were these the only vices in which he in- 
dulged. The painted and bedizened wretches — 
lowest beings in the scale of humanity — who daily 
and nightly flaunt upon Broadway, luring to swift 
destruction thousands of the brightest and best of 
our land, soon ensnared him, and the triumph of 
vice and infamy over his soul was complete. And, 
as a natural consequence, even the generous allow- 
ance of pocket money afforded by his uncle was 


60 


CHRISTLIKE. 


all too small to supply Ills wants, and he resorted 
to pilfering from his uncle’s cash drawer to supply 
his deficiencies. At last, however, his demands 
became so extravagant that he could no longer rely 
upon this source, and in an evil hour he forged his 
uncle’s name to a check for five hundred dollars. 
Of course the forgery was soon discovered, and, 
though for family reasons his uncle declined to 
prosecute him and hushed the matter up as much 
as possible, his stay there was at an end. Giving 
him a small sum of money, and sternly forbid- 
ding him ever to show his face in his house again, 
the uncle sent him adrift into the wide, wide world 
to do for himself or starve as might be. 

Had a different course been pursued, his reform 
ation might have been effected, but his uncle was 
a man of too much austerity, and of too stern in- 
tegrity himself to overlook or suffer anything to 
mitigate in the slightest degree such a departure 
from the path of rectitude as this. He, therefore, 
instead of stretching out his hand to his erring 
kinsman, and endeavoring to lift him from the 
slough of infamy into which he had fallen, with 
harsh words and frowning brow drove him forth 
under circumstances which were almost sure to 
accomplish the ruin already begun. 

The reader will, no doubt, and justly too, cen- 
sure the harsh spirit which impelled the uncle 
thus to drive his nephew apparently to irretrieva- 
ble ruin, but wherein does his course differ from 
that of society in general? Let any one, under 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


61 


any circumstances, make a single false step or de- 
viate in the slightest particular from the strict line 
of rectitude, and though he may have possessed 
before the purity of an angel, the memory of for- 
mer goodness is at once obliterated and naught is 
remembered or spoken of in the community but 
the transgression. Even professed followers of the 
Lamb of God, instead of “ going about doing 
good ” to the weak and erring, as was the wont 
of their Divine Master during his pilgrimage on 
earth, repulse with coldest scorn the suppliant 
who, conscious of his own weakness, implores as- 
sistance on his halting way, and with a few words 
of heartless and meaningless advice dismiss the 
poor mendicant, thanking God, as did the Phari- 
see of old, that they are “ not like this poor pub- 
lican.” Gentle woman, too, whose noblest mission 
on earth is to refine and elevate frail humanity, 
when brought in contact with sin and degrada- 
tion, especially among her own sex, forgets the 
work assigned to her here and the Divine injunc- 
tion, and gathering her robes about her person to 
avoid contamination, says to the erring one, “Pass 
on. I am more holy than thou,” goes her way and 
straightway forgets the appeal which has been 
made to her higher and nobler feelings. Oh ! how 
much of misery, and sorrow, and suffering would 
be saved to the human family if people would but 
obey the Divine command, “ Whatsoever ye would 
that others should do to you, do ye even so unto 
them.” And who can venture to say how many 


62 


CHRISTLIKE. 


precious souls have been driven, by the scorn and 
implacability of society, into the realms of eter- 
nal darkness beyond the grave, which might, by a 
different course, have been made precious jewels 
in the diadem of our Heavenly Redeemer? But to 
return to our narrative. 

For the next few years the life of William Jones 
was a wild and stormy one. With no fixed place 
of abode, without any settled vocation, wandering 
from place to place, and living by his wits, there 
was scarcely any form of vice or immorality in 
which he did not freely indulge. 

Meantime, Mr. Shepley had founded his school 
and had advertised for competent teachers to fill 
the several departments. One of these advertise- 
ments chanced to meet the eye of William Jones, 
and he instantly formed a resolution to change en- 
tirely his habits and mode of life. As has been 
already intimated, he was possessed of a very 
good education, although he had never graduated 
at any institution of learning, and he determined 
to apply to this distant relative for a situation. 
Hastily concocting a story to account for his being 
out of employment, he made the best of his way 
to Huntingdon, passed a satisfactory examination, 
and in due time was admitted a member of Mr. 
Shepley’s family, and a teacher of the new school. 
Time passed, and at the advent of Mary to the 
school, he had been connected with it about five 
years, and had been promoted from a mere teach- 
er to the position of assistant superintendent, and 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


65 


during all that time he had never once been known 
to stray from the path of rectitude. True, he had 
occasionally indulged in some of his former vices, 
but so carefully had he concealed his derelictions 
under the cloak of religion (vile hypocrite that he 
was,) that no one about the school suspected any- 
thing of his true character, and all accorded to 
him the same reputation which Mary had given 
him in her conversation with her mother. But 
alas ! how cruelly were they all to be undeceived, 
for the vile instincts of his mind were not eradi- 
cated — they were only concealed, and were des- 
tined to burst forth at a future time with consum- 
ing violence. 

His first acquaintance with Mary, aside from that 
which must necessarily exist between teacher and 
pupil, had been on this wise. The family had 
gone out to a tea party and Mary went down to 
the parlor to cheer her loneliness with some music, 
for she ^ had been thinking of the dear ones at 
home, and her heart was very mellow. As she 
finished a piece of music a voice behind exclaimed, 
“ Beautiful !” Wheeling around in surprise, for 
she had not heard any one enter, she beheld Mr. 
Jones, and would have fled from the room but that 
he besought her so earnestly to stay, saying he 
was lonesome and wished she would charm the 
evil spirit away from him. 

“ Why, Mr. Jones,” said Mary, “ I thought you 
had gone to the tea party.” 

“ No,” said he, “ I had a headache and begged 


64 


CHRISTLIKE. 


them to excuse me. And right glad am I that I 
stayed at home since it resulted in such a treat as 
you have just favored me with, though uninten- 
tionally.” 

“ If you flatter my poor performance, intended 
only for myself,” said she, laughingly, “ I will at 
once retire to my own room and leave you to the 
solitude which the flatterer deserves.” 

“ Well, Miss Mary, if you will sit down I will 
promise not to say a word which can be construed 
into flattery,” said he, politely, placing a chair for 
her, which she accepted. “ And now,” he contin- 
ued, “ what shall we do to pass away the time ? 
Do you play at draughts ?” 

“ I used to play some with papa and cousin 
Harry,” she replied, “but I do not play any more.” 

“ I am very fond of the game,” said he, “ shall 
we play ?” 

“ No, I will never play again.” 

This settled the matter. Jones gave her a sketch 
of his life, omitting only such parts as might have 
a tendency to injure him in her mind, for he had 
already in his own base heart formed the deliber- 
ate determination t@ ruin her if within his power. 
He told her of his orphanage, the hardships (as he 
pictured them,) he had endured since, and all that 
sort of thing, and said : 

“ I do not suppose. Miss Mary, you have ever 
thought what it is to lose a kind and loving moth- 
er. I thank God you have never had any such ex- 
perience.” 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


65 


“ Indeed, Mr. Jones, you are very much mistak- 
en,” said she, her beautiful eyes filling with tears 
at the thought ; “ I am, like yourself, an orphan. 
My father I do not remember at all, and my moth- 
er, who died when I was six years old, I can but 
just remember. Dr. and Mrs. Bay are only my 
adopted parents, though I am sure they are as 
kind to me as my own parents could have been 
had they lived, and as such I love them.” 

Their mutual orphanage at once created a bond 
of sympathy between them, and from that time 
they were familiar friends. Jones told Mary he 
had neither brother nor sister, and asked her to 
be a sister to him, and she in turn had requested 
him to assume the relation of brother to her, and 
thus they had pledged themselves to each other 
just the evening before Mrs. Bay and Harry came 
to see her. Poor Mary ! Had she known the dire 
infiuence which this friendship, this fraternal ar- 
rangement, was to have upon her future life — how 
it was to blast and wither the bright hopes which 
then clustered thick around the morning of her 
life, how would she have recoiled from it. But the 
future was hidden from her view — no doubt wisely 
so — and full of trust and confidence and hope, she 
went forward to her doom. 

5 


66 


CHRISTLIKE. 


CHAPTER Y. 

Whei^' Mary awoke the next morning, she was 
surprised to see her mother already dressed and 
sitting by the window reading the Bible. She 
glanced at the little ormolu clock on the mantel, 
and to her astonishment found that it was nearly 
eight o’clock. Suddenly starting up in bed she 
attracted the attention of her mother, who turned 
and accosted her. 

“ Good-morning, my daughter. I am afraid 
Mrs. Shepley is spoiling you by too much indul- 
gence. You were not wont before coming here to 
lie in bed as late as this. I think I must tell 
Mrs. Shepley not to let you sleep later than six 
o’clock.” 

“ Oh ! mamma,” she replied, “ I usually rise at 
or before six, but it was late wlien I went too sleep 
last night. And besides this is the Sabbath 
morning, and everybody lies in bed later of a Sab- 
bath morning than any other time.” 

“Well, my dear, make haste and dress, and I 
will assist you, for breakfast will very soon be 
ready.” 

By the time her toilet was made the bell rung 
and they descended to the dining-room, where they 
found the family already assembled, and partook 
of a very good breakfast, after which it was 
arranged that Mrs. Bay and her daughter. Miss 


SAVE THE FALLEN 


67 


Davilla and Harry should walk to church together. 

When it was time to start, Mary took her mother 
Iby the arm, saying pleasantly to Harry : 

“ I will be mamma’s escort, while you shall per- 
form the same service for Miss Davilla.” 

‘‘Most certainly, if agreeable to Miss Davilla,” 
said Harry, bowing in the most polite manner to 
the young lady, though not a little vexed at the 
arrangement, for he would much preferred walking 
with his charming cousin. 

The young lady graciously bowed her assent 
and they set out. But so deeply was Harry an- 
noyed and chagrined by the turn affairs had 
taken, for he did not appreciate Miss Davilla at 
her true worth, and hence failed to enjoy her soci- 
ety as he ought, that it was impossible for him to 
conceal it. In fact, as Mary saucily told him after 
their return home, he “ acted more like a great 
bear than a well-bred gentleman ” — an accusation 
which he had the grace to acknowledge, but for 
which he offered no explanation or excuse. Mary, 
however, persisted in ascribing it to a cause totally 
at variance with the truth, believing that he had 
fallen in love with her teacher, and that his reserve 
arose from bashfulness, and she admonished him 
to correct the fault. 

“ I am sure,” said she, “ that Miss Davilla likes 
you, and if you will only treat her right who 
knows but she may be my cousin some day ? I 
know I could not have a better.” 


m 


CHRISTLIKE. 


She will never be your cousin,” he replied, 
gravely, “ so let us drop the subject.” 

“Well, it will be your fault if she is not,” re- 
plied Mary, “but if you wish to drop the subject, 
so be it,” and it was not again alluded to during 
their visit. But still, she could not divest herself 
of the belief that Harry and Miss Havilla were in 
love with each other, and she secretly indulged a 
hope that at some future time events might turn 
out according to her prediction. 

After dinner, Mr. Shepley called his pupils to- 
gether, and Sabbath school exercises consumed 
over an hour. Mrs. Bay was very much interested 
in these exercises, for she was a pious, Christian 
woman, and anything tending to promote the in- 
fluence of the Gospel of her Lord and Master was 
at all times a subject of deep interest to her. 
William Jones was a prominent participator in 
these exercises, and as she marked the fervent zeal 
with which he entered upon the instruction of his 
class, and heard him, in a short but well-delivered 
address to the entire school, enforce with peculiar 
energy the claims of Christ upon our hearts, she 
felt within herself that Mary’s vindication of him 
was the truth, and that she had done him a griev- 
ous injustice. So perfectly was he skilled in 
deceit and hypocrisy ! E-eally he cared no more 
for religion or the Sabbath-school than the veriest 
scoffer upon the face of the earth, but he had a 
part to play, and right skillfully he sustained it. 

But it were a vain and useless task to attempt 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


69 


to enumerate all the incidents of each day of their 
visit, extending over an entire week, and the effort 
would be alike unprofitable and uninteresting to 
both writer and reader. It is sufficient for us to 
say that Harry Bay omitted no opportunity dur- 
ing the time of their stay to bask in the sunlight 
of Mary’s smile ; he constantly sought her society, 
and each day but served to strengthen the cord 
which bound his heart to hers, and when the day 
of their departure arrived he was as completely 
enslaved as was ever Grecian or Roman captive of 
the days of yore. But no word had passed his 
lips intimating to her the nature ot his feelings 
toward her. He regarded her yet as a mere child, 
and for this reason he forebore to say anything to 
her upon a subject which he almost doubted her 
ability fully to comprehend. Perhaps it had been 
well for both of them had he at that time mani- 
fested less reason. The evil designs of William 
Jones were not then fully developed; he had 
scarcely begun to exercise upon her that subtle 
and poisonous influence which was subsequently 
destined to enshroud her fair young life in gloom ; 
her heart and affections were then comparatively 
free, and might have been won by him, and 
encased in the armor of his virtuous love, she 
might safely have bid defiance to the wiles and 
snares which the treacherous and false-hearted 
tutor was preparing for her. 

The time at last came for Mrs. Bay and Harry 
to return to their home, and with words of love and 


70 


CHRISTLIKE. 


kindly remembrance they parted from Mary. As 
they stood in the hall waiting for the carriage to 
be driven up to the door, Mary laid her hand upon 
his arm. 

“You will visit me sometimes, will you not, 
cousin? I shall be so lonely when you and mam- 
ma are gone — more so, I fear, than if you had not 
come at all. You need not wait for papa and 
mamma, but come at any time. Will you not?” 

Harry gave the required promise, and at that 
moment the carriage drove up to the door. They 
took their seats and were whirled away to the 
depot, and in a short time Harry and Mrs. Bay 
were rushing away in the direction of home with 
all the speed and power of steam, while Mary was 
riding “ sad and lonely ” back to the school 
building. 

And what of William Jones during the week of 
this visit? More familiar with the ways of the 
world, and better educated in the school of pas- 
sion than Mary, he had fathomed correctly the 
nature of Harry’s feelings toward her, and he had 
apprehended serious interference from that quar- 
ter with the plans he had formed with the coolest 
and most calculating villainy for her ruin. But 
he watched them narrowly, and when he became 
satisfied that no word of love had passed between 
them he breathed more freely, but nevertheless 
determined to delay no longer the commencement 
of his schemes to destroy her peace and happi- 
ness. 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


71 


The next day was the Sabbath, and as Mary 
remembered the events of the preceding one, and 
contrasted her happiness then with her sadness 
and lowness of spirits now, she determined she 
would not go to church. Accordingly she pleaded 
a headache (which she really had) and begged 
Mrs. Shepley to excuse her attendance, to which 
the good lady freely assented, and she remained 
at home. Sometime after the family had gone, 
she was in her own room, when there came a gen- 
tle tap at her door. She was surprised, for even 
the servants had gone out, and she supposed there 
was no one in the house but herself, but she arose 
and opened the door, and there stood William 
Jones. 

“ Why, Mr. Jones,” said she, in tones which re- 
vealed her surprise at seeing him, “I supposed 
you were at church with the rest of the family.” 

“ I beg your pardon for the intrusion, Miss Bay,” 
he replied politely, “ but I knew you did not go to 
church, and as I did not care about going, thought 
I would bring you this book, knowing you to be 
very fond of reading,” handing her as he spoke a 
handsomely bound volume he had brought with 
him. 

“ Thank you, Mr. Jones. You are very kind. I 
did not feel like going out to-day- — was rather low- 
spirited — and I have no doubt this will help me 
very much to pass away the time,” she replied, 
taking the book and turning to the title page. 


72 


CHRISTLIKE. 


“ ‘ The Two Lovers,’ ” she continued, as she read 
its title, “is it a good story?” 

“ I think you will find it interesting as well as 
instructive,” he replied. “Read it, and give me 
your opinion of it.” 

“ I will with pleasure.” 

“ I, too, am lonely to-day. Won’t you come 
down in the library and pick out a book for me, 
little sister ? for you know you promised to be my 
sister. I will read anything you may select.” 

Mary colored somewhat, and replied, “ I will be 
down in a few moments.” 

“ Thank you,” said he, and went away. 

He descended to the library and impatiently 
waited her coming. Mr. Shepley had a large and 
well selected library, embracing works of every 
class, scientific, historical, biographical, poetical, 
and a considerable collection of standard works of 
fiction. Jones was wondering what her choice 
would be — a love story, a volume of poems, or 
what — when there was a tap at the door and she 
entered the room. 

“ Thank you, sister mine, for your kindness in 
coming down,” he said. “Will you have a seat ?” 

“ No, I thank you. You asked me, I believe, to 
select a book for you. Will you accept and read 
my choice ?” 

“ Certainly I will.” 

“ Then read this,” said she, handing down a 
copy of the Holy Scriptures. “ I know of no book 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


73 


in all this collection which can be studied with as 
much interest and profit as this.” 

He colored violently, for he thought she intended 
a reproof, but took the book with some muttered 
expression of thankfulness, which, however, found 
no echo in his heart. 

“ And now,” said she, “ having fulfilled my 
promise, I will return to my own room.” 

He made no efibrt to detain her, albeit he was 
deeply chagrined and disappointed. He had in- 
vited her into the library merely for the purpose 
of enjoying her society, nothing doubting that he 
should be able to invent some plan for keeping 
her there. But her simple piety and childish faith 
in the Word of God — her choice of that book of 
all others — had completely upset his calculations 
and scattered all his plans, and he was so much 
nonplussed that he knew not what to say or do. 
As soon as she was out of hearing, he threw down 
the book with a muttered curse. 

“Pool that I was,” said he, “ was anything ever 
so awkwardly done ? But I will succeed yet ;” 
and with this unholy determination he left the 
library and sought his own room. Throwing him- 
self upon a lounge he lay a long time musing upon 
his discomfiture, and devising new plans for the 
future, for so far from being induced by this one 
defeat to abandon his villainous purpose, he was 
but stimulated to renew with more determined en- 
ergy his fiendish designs. What his plans finally 
became need not now be laid before the reader — 


74 


CHRISTLIKE. 


they will be sufficiently developed in the course of 
our story. 

Time sped away and a vacation approached. 
Mary had not been home since coming to the 
school, and she had resolved that she would take 
advantage of the recess to visit that place, dearer 
to her than any other on earth, where dwelt all 
whom she could call friends. Duly advised of her 
determination, Harry had signified his intention 
of coming to accompany her on her journey, and 
she was now looking each day, with the most anx- 
ious impatience, for his arrival. 

At last he came, and the heartiness and warmth 
withv/hich he was greeted would doubtless have 
instilled some jealousy into the heart of William 
Jones had he been present at the first meeting of 
the adopted cousins. Certainly fit was all that any 
cousin could have a right to require, and yet self- 
ish, exacting Harry was far from being satisfied. 
He did not want a mere cousinly greeting ; he 
would not be satisfied with anything short of a 
lover’s welcome, and her greeting was as far from 
this as anything that could well be imagined. 
There was an entire absence of that shyness and 
embarrassment — that pleasant little excitement, so 
diverse from all other, which attends the greeting 
of lovers long separated — no blushing or fluttering 
— but with true sisterly freedom she met, embraced 
and kissed him, and then drawing his arm around 
her waist, led him away in the direction of her 
room. 


SAVE THE FALLEN 


75 


“You naughty fellow,” said she, with well simu- 
lated indignation, “how you have kept your 
promise.” 

“ My promise ? What do you mean ?” 

“ Oh ! yes. It is very well for you to pretend 
ignorance and forgetfulness. If you forget a 
promise made to your sweetheart as readily as the 
one made to your cousin, I pity her and you. But 
you shall not escape my just wrath by any such 
shallow pretense as this,” said Mary, shaking her 
head menacingly at him. 

“ I have no wish to escape your wrath if I have 
done wrong,” said he, with mock humility, “ but 
will your ladyship condescend to inform me of the 
nature of my offense, that I may perform due pen- 
ance ?” 

“ Now, Harry Bay, you are really provoking. 
Did you not promise me when you were here with 
mamma that you would visit me again before 
school was out? and how have you kept that 
promise ?” said she reproachfully. 

“ Are you sure I promised to visit you before 
school was out, or did I only promise to visit you 
without specifying any time ? and here I am in ful- 
fillment of that promise,” responded he, laughing 
at her pretended indignation. 

“ Are you not ashamed to try and creep out of 
it by such a subterfuge as this ?” she cried, merri- 
ly. “ Oh ! shame, where is thy blush ?” 

“ But answer my question. Did I name any 
time at which I should visit you ?” he persisted. 


76 


CHRISTLIKE. 


“ You did not exactly name the day,” she re- 
plied, more seriously, “ but I asked you to visit 
me often, and you said you would.” 

‘‘And so I did. Every day I visited you in 
spirit, and every week my white-winged messen- 
gers were here to assure you of my love and my 
constant remembrance, and to inquire after your 
welfare and happiness. Was not that enough?” 

“ I will admit, cousin mine, that you were very 
faithful in writing to me, and I suppose I must 
forgive your other derelictions on this account,” 
said she, kindly, “ but I really expected one or two 
visits from you before this time.” 

Long time they sat and talked, and when the 
tea bell rung they had hardly finished asking and 
answering questions. They went down, and Harry 
was kindly greeted by every member of the fam- 
ily save Mr. Jones, who, looking upon him as a 
competitor for the favor of Mary, was hardly more 
than polite to him — less than this he dare not be 
lest it should injure his suit with her. But had 
he dared give vent to his feelings, very different 
would have been his welcome, for the demon of 
darkness had taken possession of his soul, and he 
could ill brook the presence of any one or any- 
thing which threatened to cross his path. 

The next morning Harry and Mary were in the 
parlor when Mr. Jones entered. 

“ The carriage is ready. Miss Bay,” he said, 
“and if you have no objections I will accompany 
you to the depot.” 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


.77 


“Certainly, Mr. Jones, we shall be pleased to 
have you. Miss Davilla is going with us, and I 
am sure she will be glad of your company 
home.” 

At this moment Miss Davilla entered the room 
and said she was ready. 

“ Then let us set out at once,” said Mary, run- 
ning out to the carriage. “ Cousin, you and Mr. 
Jones take the front seat. Miss Davilla and I do 
not like to ride backward.” 

William Jones bit his lips in angry disappoint- 
ment, for he had intended to so arrange matters as 
to secure a seat by the side of Mary during this 
ride ; but there was no help for it, and he could 
only submit, secretly consoling himself for his 
disappointment by the reflection that if he was 
disappointed, so, too, was Harry, and by securing 
the seat directly opposite hers. As for Harry, he 
was too noble-minded to indulge in any such be- 
littling reflections. Thoroughly disliking Jones, 
and rating him as the unprincipled villain and 
hypocrite he was, he still felt no disposition to 
treat him otherwise than kindly, feeling well as- 
sured that Mary had too much sense, and was too 
strongly imbued with the principles of morality 
and virtue to be in any danger from him. 

They had a very pleasant ride, and when they 
had seen Harry and his beautiful cousin comfort- 
ably seated, and the cars slowly rolling away from 
the depot, Mr. Jones and Miss Davilla entered the 
carriage and returned home. They were both in- 


78 


CHRISTLIKE. 


dined to be quiet, and but little conversation took 
place between them. He was thinking of Mary, 
and envying Harry the ride he would have with 
her on the cars, and she was silent from choice. 

Harry and Mary meantime were speeding 
onward toward home, and when they reached the 
depot in Kittaning they found Hr. Bay and his 
wife with the carriage waiting for them. The 
moment Mary alighted from the cars she was 
folded in her mother’s arms. 

“Hear, dear mamma,” said she, sobbing with 
hysterical joy ; ‘^how glad I am to get home once 
more, and to see you looking so well; and you, 
too, dear papa, I really believe you have grown 
younger in the six months that I have been away.” 

Albeit, not much used to the melting mood, the 
good old doctor was seen to wipe his eyes in a 
very suspicious manner, as he witnessed the de- 
light of his foster-daughter. And at that moment 
he felt repaid more than a thousand fold for all 
that he had ever done for her. 

As soon as the warmth of their congratulations 
would admit, they all entered the carriage and 
were driven in the direction of the doctor’s man- 
sion, and when they came in sight of the well- 
remembered place, the childish delight of Mary 
broke out afresh. 

“I declare,” said she, “if there isn’t good, dear 
old Kitty, standing at the gate to welcome us. 
God bless you, Kitty,” said she, springing out of 
the carriage into the arms of her faithful old friend, 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


7 ^ 


the moment the vehicle stopped, “ you are really 
looking quite young again. You dear, dear crea- 
ture,” she continued, kissing her again and again 
in the exuberance of her joy, while Kitty seemed 
scarcely less excited than her young mistress. 
And then stately, dignified old Bruno, the New- 
foundland who had been her playmate and con- 
stant companion before she left home, forgetting 
his wonted gravity and extreme sense of propriety, 
came bounding along to welcome her home and 
receive his share of her caresses — a boon which 
the little girl was not slow to bestow upon him. 
Indeed everything about the place came in for its 
just proportion of the overflowing of her heart’s 
affection, and it must be chronicled that in no sin- 
gle instance were its treasures wasted on the empty 
air. For every animate object, even down to the 
canary in his gilded cage, who poured forth his 
loudest and sweetest notes to welcome her home, 
seemed to know and recognize her presence, and 
to vie earnestly with each other in the warmth and 
heartiness of their greeting. 

‘‘Well, Kitty,” said Mary, as soon as the warmth 
of welcome would permit, “ how are my favorite 
flowers ? Have you taken good care of them ? ” 

“ Indeed I have, honey. Just come into the gar- 
den and see,” and the faithful old creature led the 
way, while Mary followed, accompanied by Harry, 
who wanted to call her attention to some rare flow- 
ers of great beauty which he had procured and 
planted expressly for her. 


CHRISTLIKE. 


SO 


When the garden had been sufficiently admired, 
Harry told the faithful old servant to go and pre- 
pare some supper for them, as they had had 
no dinner and it was now about four o’clock in the 
afternoon, for he desired to be alone with Mary. 
The evident admiration with which Jones regarded 
Mary, had excited his jealous fears, and he had 
determined to forego that portion of his plans 
which contemplated maintaining silence on the 
subject of his love for Mary until the close of her 
school-days, and to bring matters to a crisis at 
once. Leading her, therefore, to a beautiful sum- 
mer house near the center of the garden, he seated 
himself by her side, and, after a few moments of 
embarrassed silence, said in a low but earnest 
tone : 

“ Have you ever loved any one, Mary ? ” 

Mary blushed, averted her head, and for some 
seconds did not answer. 

“ Will you not answer me ? ” he asked. 

“ Why do you ask me that question, Harry? ” 
she said at last. ‘‘ I do not know what you mean. 
You know that I love papa, and mamma, and 
you — in short, I love all my friends. Is that what 
you mean? ” 

‘‘No, Mary, it is not what I mean. You are 
now almost sixteen years of age, and you certainly 
know what I mean when I speak of love. Else why 
that crimson blush at the mention of that word ? 
Mary, do you love William Jones ? ” 

At the mention of this name, she blushed more 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


81 


violently than ever, and attempted to rise from her 
seat. 

“ Cousin,” she said, “ let us go in the house.” 

“ No,” said Harry, seizing her hand and detain- 
ing her by his side, “ you must not go until you 
give me an answer, Mary,” he continued ardently. 
“ I love you better than my own life — I worship 
you. Without your love I shall be supremely 
miserable. Say, Mary, can you return my earnest, 
sincere affection, or do you love another ? ” 

At this the color receded from her face and left 
her pale as marble. She had never suspected that 
Harry regarded her with any other feeling than 
that which she had for him — the love of a cousin, 
or rather of brother and sister. True, they were 
no relation to each other, save by adoption, but 
they had been, as it were, reared together, and the 
thought of a possibility of any other or different 
love had never entered her mind. At length she 
spoke, but without looking in his face. 

“ Harry, as a cousin, as a brother, I love you — 
no more.” 

“Answer me one question farther. Do you love 
another? ” 

“No, Harry. I do not. You know I am too 
young to think of love.” 

“You are too young to wed, but you are not 
too young to love,” he replied. “ I can afford to 
wait for your love. I ask you to be my wife, but 
not now. I will wait till your days of schooling 

are past, or even longer, if you will only promise 
6 


82 


CHRISTLIKE. 


to love me and be mine. Say, will you promise ? 
he asked, in an earnest, pleading tone, bending 
forward and gazing imploringly in her colorless 
face. 

“No, Harry, I cannot promise you anything now. 
I am too young and inexperienced to know my 
own heart. One thing I do know — you are worthy 
a much better wife than I could ever be ; are 
worthy the undivided affection of any pure, true- 
hearted woman — but I love you only as a brother. 
I do not know that I love any one with any other 
or warmer affection than I have for you, but this is 
all I can give you. And now,” said she, withdraw- 
ing her hand and rising to her feet, “ let me go to 
my own room.” 

She wished to regain her composure before meet- 
ing her parents at the tea table, for they must not 
suspect anything. He made no further effort to 
detain her, for he felt that it were worse than use- 
less, but as soon as she was out of sight he rose 
and hastened to his own room. 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


83 


CHAPTER yi. 

Upon leaving the summer house Mary hastened 
at once to her room where she threw herself on the 
bed and lay for some time in a paroxysm of tears. 
It was the first time she had been addressed in the 
language of affection, and for a time it almost 
seemed to her excited and untaught imagination 
as though an insult had been offered to her, and 
yet she fully realized that Harry’s intentions and 
motives toward herself had been none but the most 
noble and honorable, and soon that pity which is 
said to be ‘‘ akin to love,” filled her heart as she 
remembered his assurances that without her he 
would be supremely miserable, and she half 
repented that she had repulsed his proffered affec- 
tions, and yet, in her inmost heart she felt that she 
could not conscientiously speak words of encour- 
agement to him, for notwithstanding her assevera- 
tion to the contrary, an examination of her heart, 
in the light of the fierce fire of Harry’s love, had 
revealed to her the fact that the feeling with which 
she regarded William Jones was not, as she here- 
tofore considered it, mere sympathy for him in his 
lonely lot. The events of the last few moments 
had transformed her from sunny girlhood into the 
dignity and maturity of womanhood, and she real- 
ized with maiden modesty and shame the fact that 
she had given her heart to one who had never 
asked its bestowal. 


M 


CHRISTLIKE. 


Some time she lay thus tormented with conflict- 
ing emotions, but, finally remembering that she 
should soon have to meet the family at tlie tea 
table, she rose and proceeded to remove from her 
countenance, so far as she was able, the traces of 
the violent emotions through which she had passed. 
In this she was but partially successful. The cold 
water removed all traces of recent tears, but no 
amount of washing would restore to her pallid 
cheeks their wonted bloom, and when the bell 
finally rang and she descended to the dining-room, 
her countenance presented almost the ghastly pal- 
lor of a corpse. 

Not so with Harry. Though deeply mortified 
and disappointed at the result of the interview 
from which he had hoped so much, he still had 
sufficient manhood and fortitude to conceal it, and 
when after having performed his ablutions, he 
came to the tea table, no one would have suspected 
from his appearance and manners that he was a 
recently rejected lover ; but calmly as he took his 
refusal he was by no means disposed to accept it 
as final, and while awaiting the tea bell, he had 
determined upon a plan of operation which he pro- 
ceeded at once to carry into effect, not only for the 
purpose of advancing his interest with Mary, but 
also to destroy, as far as lay in his power, the in- 
fluence which he had the best reason to believe 
William Jones had obtained over her ; and in this, 
although he reasonably supposed he would be 
advancing his own cause, he was not entirely self- 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


85 . 


ish. He had observed that gentleman very closely, 
and he had become satisfied that he was a reck- 
less, unprincipled man, and very correctly reasoned 
that any infiuence he might exercise over Mary 
would be but evil to her; and he was resolved, 
whether he could win her or not, to save her from 
the misery which he believed would attend her life 
if united with so despicable a man as he believed 
Jones to be. 

Accordingly he took an early opportunity to 
ask Kitty to meet him in the summer-house, where 
his unfortunate declaration of love had been 
made, as soon as she could do so, after dark, tell- 
ing her, by way of inducement to comply with his 
request, that he had something to say to her of 
Mary. Good, honest, old Kitty, whose love for 
Harry was second only to her devotion to Mary, 
readily promised him the desired interview, and 
named the hour at which she would meet him in 
the arbor. 

Dr. Bay was the first to notice, at the tea table, 
the pallor of Mary’s countenance, and his paternal 
and professional fears were at once aroused, and 
in a voice of tender earnestness he inquired : 

‘‘My dear daughter, what ails you? Are you 
sick ? ” 

“ Oh ! no, dear papa,” replied Mary, “ I am not 
s-ick, but I have a slight headache and feel some- 
what faint.” 

“ What can I do for you, my love ? ” he inquired. 

“N'othing, I thank you,” said she; “I shall be 


86 


CHRISTLIKE. 


better as soon as I have drank a cup of tea.” 

Mrs. Bay expressed her mother’s fears that the 
ride had been too much for her little darling, but 
Mary so earnestly assured them that it was mere 
fatigue, which would disappear with refreshment 
and rest, that they finally desisted from saying 
anything on the subject, and allowed her to finish 
her tea in silence, after which she retired to her 
own room and again threw herself upon the couch, 
where she indulged in another fit of violent and 
passionate weeping. And yet, had any one asked 
her why she wept thus, it would have been very 
difficult for her to have answered the question sat- 
isfactorily to herself. It was not entirely pity for 
Harry’s rejected suit; it was not mortification at 
the discovery that she loved one by whom she had 
no assurance that her love was returned; it was 
not sorrow for anything past, or apprehension for 
the future, nor, perhaps, was it a combination of 
any or all these. 

There are times when people of sensitive, highly 
refined souls find themselves with feelings so much 
exercised and excited by some cause, the real 
nature of which they are unable to comprehend or 
explain, that nothing but a good, hearty cry will 
relieve or restore them to any degree of compos- 
ure. To such persons at such times tears are the 
safety-valve, relieving the pressure upon the over- 
charged heart, which would otherwise burst with 
the violence of its emotion. This was just the sit- 
uation of Mary at this time — her feelings were 


SAVE THE FALLEN 


87 


fearfully excited, and her heart was full — her 
emotion must have vent, or it would overwhelm 
her. And therefore she wept— wept just because 
she felt like it, and because it did her good to 
weep. And her weeping calmed and soothed her, 
and when Mrs. Bay, half an hour later, sought her 
room, impelled thither by her maternal anxiety, 
she found Mary comparatively calm, and the 
appearances which had excited so much uneasi- 
ness at tea time almost entirely gone. 

Turn we for a short time to Harry and old Aunt 
Kitty. As soon as she had finished her work, and 
the friendly shades of night had fallen sufficiently 
to vail her movements, Kitty stole out of the house 
and hastened unobserved to the summer-house, 
where she found Harry awaiting her with some 
impatience. 

“ Well,” said she, as soon as she entered the 
arbor, “ what do you want with me. Master 
Harry ? ” 

“I want to talk to you about Mary.” 

“ What do you want to say about her ? I heard 
all that you and she talked about this afternoon. 
Was that what you wanted to talk to me about?” 

“ It was. But how came you to hear our con- 
versation?” said Harry, with no little surprise 
manifested in his tone. “Kitty, have you been 
playing the eavesdropper?” 

“Ho, Master Harry,” she replied, “but Mrs. Bay 
sent me to call Mary into the house, because she 
wanted to see her about something. I came out, 


88 


CHRISTLIKE. 


but could not find her, and then I went to the 
summer-house, and just as I came up I heard you 
say, ‘Have you ever loved any one, Mary?’ and 
then I did not want to interrupt you, so I just 
waited until Mary started to the house, when I 
went in by the kitchen door. Pardon me. Master 
Harry, for having done so, but really I did not 
come out here to listen.” 

“Never mind about it, Kitty. Only you must 
not say anything about it to any one,” he replied, 
though he was not a little mortified to find that 
the drama which had been intended to be only 
known to Mary and himself had really been en- 
acted for the benefit of a large audience. 

“You may depend that I never will.” 

“Thank you, Kitty; and now I will tell you 
what I want. You must go to Huntingdon when 
Miss Mary returns, and stay with her. If you 
heard our conversation this afternoon, you know 
something about William Jones. He is a teacher 
in the school, and I think a bad man, and I want 
you to guard Mary against his infiuence.” 

“But how can it be done?” said Kitty. “ I am 
willing to do anything to serve you and her, but I 
do not know how.” 

“ I will tell you. You must first get my aunt’s 
consent to go, by pretending that you love Mary 
so much you cannot bear to be separated from 
her. Then we must get you a position as cham- 
bermaid, or something of the kind, there at the 
school, and then you can watch her. Will you do* 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 




it ? I will pay you well for it if you will go.” 

“ I will go,” replied Kitty, “ but not for pay. I 
will go because I love you and Mary, and don’t 
want to see you both made miserable by the 
scheming of that villain Jones.” 

‘"’Well, make your arrangements with Aunt Bay 
and I will write to Mrs. Shepley about your com- 
ing, and I have no doubt the whole matter can be 
arranged to our entire satisfaction. And as I 
said before, I will pay you well for your services. 
Your pay shall be more than you would earn 
here.” 

“ I tell you. Master Harry,” replied Kitty, with 
honest energy, ‘‘ I will not go for pay, but only 
because I love you and Mary, and want to see you 
both happy. What do I care for the money ? I’ve 
no soul in the world that I care anything for — 
nobody but just myself, and so I can live the few 
years that I have yet to stay on earth ; that is all 
I need to care for. I shall be well enough paid if 
I can only do my little master and mistress some 
good. So don’t say anything more about the pay 
unless you want to hurt old Kitty’s feelings.” 

“ Well, I won’t say anything more about it,” re- 
plied Harry, his heart touched by the honest de- 
votion of the old servant, “ only you go and take 
good care of your little mistress. And now you 
had better go in the house and say nothing to any 
one, and especially to Mary, about this conversa- 
tion, or about the other one you overheard here.” 

“ IS’ever fear, Master Harry. You can trust Kit- 


90 


CHRISTLIKE. 


ty for that. I only want to live to see you and 
Mary married and happy. And now good night,” 
said she, taking his hand and kissing it with 
earnest affection, and then gliding out of the 
arbor in the direction of the house. 

“ Good-night, Kitty. God bless you,” he re- 
plied, with heartfelt earnestness, and then, as she 
vanished in the darkness, he added, soliloquising- 
ly, “ How much less of misery, sin and unhappi- 
ness would exist in the world, if all mankind had 
but one half the truth, fidelity, purity, and earnest, 
unselfish devotion to the good of others which 
dwells in thy spirit.” 

But alas for the human race ! Instead of the 
faithfulness and affection of old Kitty being the 
moving principle which actuates the mass of man- 
kind in their intercourse with their fellows, we too 
frequently see its very opposite pervading the 
human breast. Some philosopher, who has been 
pronounced cynical, has said that “ all mankind 
are natural enemies,” and cheerless as is the doc- 
trine, unflattering to the species as its announce- 
ment seems, we are by no means sure that it is as 
destitute of foundation in truth as is generally 
claimed. Take, for example, the intercourse of 
men in commercial pursuits. Commerce has been 
deflned to be the interchange of commodities for 
mutual beneflt. But who believes that the mer- 
chant who sells his goods, the farmer who markets 
his grain, the lawyer who delivers his opinion of a 
case presented to him, the physician who writes 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


91 


out liis prescription — are any of them actuated by 
the desire of being beneficial to their customers ? 
Are they not, on the contrary, all actuated solely 
by the desire to benefit themselves, and, to a cer- 
tain extent, at the expense of those with whom 
they deal ? Does not the merchant rejoice with 
heartfelt glee when a rise in the wholesale market 
enables him to raise the price of the goods with 
which his shelves are filled, and thus accumulate 
large gains on his purchases, which must be paid 
from the pockets of his customers ? Will it not 
rejoice the very heart of the farmer, when he brings 
his load of wheat to the market, to see two rival 
buyers bidding against each other for his grain, 
until, their angry spirit being aroused, he disposes 
of his commodity for four or five cents per bushel 
more than it is really worth ? Does not the lawyer 
chuckle within himself when retained by some 
wealthy and obstinate client in a cause in which 
large fees and long bills of cost loom up before 
his mind’s eye ? And so on throughout the whole 
category of classes and employments of the sons 
and daughters of Adam. We all alike rejoice 
when the demands or necessities of our neighbors 
enable us to dispose of our wares or our knowl- 
edge at enormous prices, not because the pur- 
chasers are thereby benefited, but because our 
purses are well lined. This is but a single illus- 
tration of the principle we are considering. Oth- 
ers may be seen daily in the envy, the petty jeal- 
ousy of preferment, the backbiting, the scandal, 


92 


CHRISTLIKE. 


the unjust suspicions, the sneers and innuendoes 
which pervade the atmosphere of every commun- 
ity. It finds expression in the trite and true say- 
ing that “ when a man once starts down hill every 
one gives him a kick,” and is illustrated by the 
fact that when a poor wretch — more especially a 
female — has once made a false step, every hand, 
instead of being extended to reclaim the wanderer, 
is put forth to push him or her bodily down the 
precipice upon the brink of which he or she has 
stumbled. 

Did we say every hand ? Let us recall the ex- 
pression. Let us not, because of the injustice of 
the generality of mankind, be unjust to those 
noble spirits who, like good old Kitty, are willing 
to sacrifice their own comforts and conveniences to 
the mere desire of being serviceable to their fel- 
low creatures ; or to those other noble mission- 
aries of fallen humanity — alas ! too rare — who will 
appear in the course of this story, and who falter 
not in their visitations of the vilest purlieus of sin 
and shame, well satisfied if their efforts but result 
in redeeming one poor wretch from the degrada- 
tion in which they are wallowing. To such noble 
souls as these, even though we could speak with 
the tongue of angels or write with the pen of in- 
spiration, any words of ours would fail to render 
the full meed of their merited commendation. 
That they can only receive at the last day when 
the Father himself shall say unto them, “ Come, 
ye blessed.” But to return to our narrative. 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


93 


Events seemed for a time to favor Harry’s plans 
for compassing the entire safety of her upon whom 
he had fixed his afiections, and for guarding her 
against the supposed machinations of William 
Jones. Mrs. Bay readily gave her consent that 
Kitty should accompany Mary upon her return to 
school, and Mrs. Shepley expressed herself very 
much pleased at the opportunity thus presented of 
supplying the place of one of her chambermaids 
wlio had just married and left her. It was speedi- 
ly arranged that Kitty should accompany “ her 
little mistress,” as she called her, to Huntingdon 
when she returned to school, and should be as- 
signed to the care of the fioor upon which Mary’s 
room was situated. Till then she would not be 
very much needed, as the boarders were most of 
them at home during the vacation, and but very 
few of the rooms, consequently, were occupied. 

Mary was quite delighted when she learned that 
she was to have the companionship of her faithful 
old Kitty upon her return to Huntingdon. Of 
course she did not understand that her principal 
errand there was to watch her — they would not 
thus intimate that they feared any evil befalling 
her, nor indeed did any one but Harry and Kitty 
— but Mrs. Bay told her daughter that Kitty was 
very anxious to be near her ; that she (Mrs. Bay) 
could very well spare her, and as Mrs. Shepley 
wanted her, she had consented to let her go. 
Aside from her delight at having some one present 
to remind her constantly of home, Mary felt some 


94 


CHRISTLIKE. 


distrust of herself ; she was oppressed by some 
presentiment of impending evil, of the nature of 
which or from whence it was to come, however, she 
had not the least idea ; she had the utmost confi- 
dence in Kitty’s sterling judgment and plain, prac- 
tical common sense, and she knew that in any 
emergency she could rely with the most unwaver- 
ing confidence upon her earnest and affectionate 
devotion, and she rejoiced at the proximity of 
such a friend. 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


95 


CHAPTER YII. 

5-estless time, who stays not his rapid flight 
for young or old, joy or sorrow, merriment or 
lamentation, and whose dominion extends over all 
things of an earthly nature, animate or inanimate, 
rolled the weeks into eternity; and at last arrived 
the day when Mary was once more to leave her 
home and take up her abode with Mrs. Shepley. 
As the day came nearer and nearer, she became 
more and more depressed in spirit ; but if she had 
been asked why, it would have been impossible 
for her to have answered the question. The dim 
foreshadowing of some dire evil, to which allusion 
has already been made, was ever present with 
her, poisoning every moment and overclouding 
her every joy, and at times she almost resolved 
that she would not return to school or go out from 
beneath the sheltering aegis of her father’s roof 
and her mother’s love. The more she chided her- 
self for what she termed her childish weakness, 
and attributed it all to her natural sorrow at leav 
ing a home which had been so pleasant to her 
and where had been spent the only hours of true 
happiness she had ever known. Well had it been 
for her had she heeded the silent admonition of 
her guardian angel, which whispered her to 
remain with those who were able and willing to 
shelter her from all danger. 


96 


CHRISTLIKE. 


But the day at last arrived, and the carriage 
was at the door; Kitty was the first to enter it, 
and was quickly followed by Mary, Mr. and Mrs. 
Bay, while Harry mounted the box beside the 
driver, for he was to accompany her on the jour- 
ney, and, after spending a few days with her at 
Huntingdon, to go on to Philadelphia, transact 
some business for his uncle, and then return to his 
home. The great family carriage rolled away to 
the depot, adieux were spoken, and Mary, accom- 
panied by Harry and Kitty, was on her way to 
Huntingdon, where they arrived after a very 
pleasant journey, and were warmly welcomed by 
Mr. and Mrs. Shepley. Jones, too, professed to 
join in the welcome, but it was with his lips only, 
for he hated Harry with all the intensity of his 
vicious and unprincipled nature; and ho had 
learned from Mrs. Shepley the position which 
Kitty was to occupy, and justly regarded her as 
an obstacle in the way of the fulfillment of his 
base designs. But for the present it was, of 
course, necessary for him to control the feeling 
which rankled in his breast, and hence he met 
them with a smiling brow, while within raged 
nought but the demoniac fires of passion and hate. 

Kitty was at once installed in her position, and 
while she remained there, Jones sought in vain for 
some opportunity to advance his infamous ends. 
She was faithful to her instruction ; Mary quietly 
and willingly, nay, gladly submitted to her sur- 
veillance, for she had the most unbounded confi- 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


97 


dence in the purity of her intentions and the cor- 
rectness of her judgment, and she steadily refused 
to afford him any private interview, however brief, 
in which he might press his suit. Not that he 
directly sought such interview — he very well 
understood that any attempt of that kind while 
Kitty remained there would be fraught with dis- 
aster — but the thousand and one little artifices to 
which he resorted to entrap her into such inter- 
view, only failed to accomplish anything. He 
could therefore do nothing but simply bide his 
time and trust fate to remove this apparently 
insurmountable obstacle. 

And he had not long to wait. Kitty had been 
there but a few weeks when she was prostrated by 
a fearful fever — almost the first sickness of her 
life — which rendered her removal from the school 
a matter of the most absolute necessity. Mary 
wept bitterly at parting with her old and faithful 
friend and servant, but there was no remedy, and 
she had to go; and Jones had sufficient address to 
get her place filled by a creature of his, who was 
willing to engage in anything, however base or 
sinful, so she was but paid for her nefarious serv- 
ices. As soon as she was installed in her new 
position, Jones called her one day into his room, 
which was on the same floor with Mary’s, and there 
held a long consultation, the nature of which will 
sufficiently appear in the progress of our story. 
Suffice it to say that when she left his room at its 

close she was pledged to do anything in her power 
7 


98 


CHRISTLIKE. 


to aid him, and to fully obey his instructions in 
every particular. 

Her first step was to endeavor to ingratiate her- 
self into Mary’s good will, and to assume as far as 
she was able the same position in her confidence 
which Kitty had sustained before her sickness 
and return home ; and this was soon accomplished 
to a certain extent. The depression of spirits un- 
der which Mary was laboring, intensified as it was 
by the loss of her faithful Kitty, her ignorance of 
the ways of the world and the distincrion between 
her position and that of the servant, rendered her 
an easy prey to the wily and deceitful woman, 
who, aided by a certain degree of intelligence, 
and an insinuating, pleasant address, sought to 
entrap her, and Kitty had been av xy but barely 
two weeks when Mary came to persuade herself 
that she was really benefited by the change ; for 
while Mary, the new girl, seemed just as much de- 
voted to her as Kitty was, she was nearer her own 
age, and hence more fully and readily compre- 
hended her feelings, while she certainly possessed 
more general intelligence than did her old friend. 
Poor child ! could she but have penetrated beneath 
that glittering exterior, and beheld that loathsome 
corruption festering within her heart, how would 
she have shrunk from her contaminating presence ; 
but no gift of second sight was hers, and blindly 
she went forward to her doom. 

Day by day the unprincipled chambermaid, 
who pursued her hideous work with an energy 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


99 


and address worthy of a better cause, increased 
and strengthened her influence over the lonely 
orphan. She possessed one of those strong, mag- 
netic natures which seem able to influence and 
control every one with whom they come in con- 
tact; and Mary, with her lonely, dependent spirit 
— a spirit which, like the vine that twines itself 
about the rugged oak, beautifying and adorning 
its rough exterior, and hiding its unsightly cover- 
ing with a vesture of living green, ever required 
the support of some sterner material than that of 
which her character was composed — soon came to 
lean upon her for advice in every matter of im- 
portance occurring in the simple history of her 
life. This was precisely what she was working 
for, and when this point was reached, when Mary 
had come to regard her as absolutely essential to 
her happiness, she lost no time in acquainting 
Jones with the fact, and with a flendish glee, such 
as the arch-fiend of darkness himself may be sup- 
posed to feel at the contemplation of an immortal 
soul forever lost, she told him how completely 
Mary was within the fatal circle of her influence 
and her power. In like spirit with her own, he 
complimented her warmly upon her influence, 
dexterity and success, and paying her part of the 
stipulated price of the orphan’s ruin, he gave her 
further directions for her conduct in the diabolical 
plot. 

His next step was to obtain a personal interview 
with Mary, but this was no easy matter. Her 


100 


CHRISTLIKE. 


natural modesty and retiring disposition led her to 
avoid, not only him, but intimate association with 
all young men ; and though he met her, of course, 
in the school room, it was long before he could ob- 
tain an opportunity to address her in the manner 
he desired. One evening when he was in his room, 
musing upon and cursing the ill-luck which had 
ever attended his efforts in that direction, he was 
aroused by Mary’s well-known rap at his door. 
Hastily entering, she said : 

“Now is your time. She is alone in the arbor 
in the garden.” 

“Yes,” growled he, sullenly, “and when I get 
there she will be gone. I have tried that often 

enough, and me if I haven’t half a mind to 

give up the chase altogether. There are plenty of 
others just as good as she who can be won with 
half the trouble.” 

“ Oh 1 fie, William Jones,” said the base and 
unprincipled woman, “ will you give her up after 
all the trouble and expense you have been at, just 
when she is within your reach ? I am ashamed of 
you. The fruit is within your reach. All you 
have to do is to reach out your hand and pluck it, 
and now you talk of abandoning the chase.” 

“ But what makes you think I will find her there 
at this time any more than the dozen other times 
I have tried the same thing ? ” he asked, and then 
added, “ I do not think you have done your work 
very well in this case.” 

“ She and I went into the arbor and sat down, 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


101 


and then she asked me to come and fetch a volume 
of poems and read to her, saying she would stay 
until I came back,’’ replied the woman, without 
seeming to notice his last remark, ‘‘ and I know if 
you go right out you will find her there.” 

It may seem almost incredible that any woman 
should be sunk so low as thus deliberately to plot 
against the peace and happiness of one of her own 
sex, but the fearful records of the crime and shame 
of our large cities prove conclusively that when a 
woman has once embarked on a career of degrada- 
tion, nothing affords her more delight than to see 
others brought to the same debased level with her- 
self, and serves to illustrate the fact that there is 
no being so degraded and maliciously wicked as 
fallen woman. Even as woman, when in her pris- 
tine state of purity, excels man in all of character 
that is lovable and lovely, discriminating with 
nicest touch between the pure and the impure, and 
turning with shuddering horror and loathing from 
the latter, so, when she has once been corrupted, 
she equally excels him in all that is hateful and 
devilish, and Satan has no more active or efficient 
agent in compassing the destruction of the human 
race than she then becomes. 

Jones waited to hear no more. Seizing his hat 
he rushed out, only telling his emissary that if she 
deceived him she should bitterly rue it — a threat 
to which she listened with a contemptuous toss of 
the head — and hastily sought the garden. Ap- 
proaching silently the little arbor, to his intense 


102 


CHRISTLIKE. 


delight, he saw Mary sitting within, all uncon- 
scious of his approach. Walking forward he 
entered the arbor, and then gave a little start as of 
surprise at finding her there, while upon her part 
the surprise at his appearance was genuine. She 
rose and would have fled, but he so courteously 
begged pardon for his intrusion, assuring her that 
he had no thought of finding her there, and begged 
her to remain, that she resumed her seat, nothing 
doubting that her faithless chambermaid would 
soon return. 

He seated himself by her side and resumed the 
conversation by remarking : 

“ I have observed for some time. Miss Bay, that 
you seem depressed in spirits. May I inquire the 
cause, and if possible endeavor to remove it ? ” 

‘Mt is not worth while, Mr. Jones,” she replied, 
“ and indeed I hardly know myself the cause of 
my being so down-hearted. I presume it is, to a 
considerable extent, loneliness at my separation 
from home and friends.” 

“ I think, if I may venture an opinion, that you 
isolate yourself too much. The other young ladies 
of the school indulge in rides, walks, boating par- 
ties, and the like, while you are hardly ever seen 
outside the grounds, or without a book in your 
hand. If you would mingle more in society, and 
study or read less, I think your despondency 
would all disappear,” he said, kindly, and with 
such apparent interest in her as to touch her feel- 
ings at once. 


SAVE THE FALLEN 


103 


“You are very kind,” she replied, “but I really 
have not the least desire to mingle in society as 
you propose. Besides, my parents sent me here 
to study, and surely my teacher,” said she, with an 
attempt at playfulness, “is not the one to advise a 
neglect of that duty.” 

“ By no means. Miss Bay,” he replied. “ I would 
not advise you to neglect a duty, but there may be 
such a thing as going too far even in a right direc- 
tion. Now it is eminently proper to read and 
study, but one may do too much even of that. By 
the way,” he continued, changing the subject, 
“ have you read the book I gave you? ” 

“I have only sketched it,” she replied, with 
some hesitation in her manner, for she did not 
really like the character of the book, “ but I very 
seldom read novels. But I sent it to your room 
before I went home at vacation. Did you not 
receive it ? ” 

“ Yes ; but I wished to inquire how you liked 
it?” 

“ I liked it just tolerably well,” she replied, with 
still more embarrassment. “ But let us return to 
the house,” said she, rising to her feet. 

“ No, Mary,” said he, taking her hand and de- 
taining her, “ do not go, but sit down a moment 
longer. I have something to say to you.’^ 

At his request she resumed her seat, and he con- 
tinued : “Mary, I love you better than my own 
life, and have loved you from the time I first saw 
jou. And, pardon my presumption,” he said. 


104 


CHRISTLIKE. 


passing his arm around her waist, “but I have 
sometimes dared to hope that I was not entirely 
indifferent to you. Say, Mary, do you, can you 
love me ? Will you be my wife ? Only say that 
you will, and I promise that nothing in my power 
shall be left undone to render you perfectly happy 
all through life. Only speak to me and say it 
shall be as I wish. Will you not, my love? ” 

But Mary could not answer. She had long loved 
him in the inmost recesses of her heart, and now 
she was too much overwhelmed with joyous emo- 
tion to make any response to his earnest pleadings. 
But she did not withdraw her hand or seek to rise 
from her seat — she only nestled closer to his side, 
while her fair head drooped upon his shoulder 
and her dark ringlets fell over and concealed the 
blush with which maiden modesty overspread her 
face. 

“ Mary, am I answered ?” he continued, clasping 
her still more closely to his side. “ I want you to 
speak to me, dearest. Just one little word to say 
that you will make me happy. It is said that 
silence gives consent, but I want you to say that 
you love me. Is it so, dearest ?’’ 

“ Yes,” she whispered, without raising her head 
from its resting place on his shoulder, her whole 
frame quivering with eager delight, while her 
blushes and her emotion grew so intense as to be 
absolutely painful. 

“ And you will be mine ?” he eagerly asked. 

“ Forever.” 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


105 . 


At the low whispered reply he clasped her in 
both his arms and strained her with passionate 
violence to his bosom, while he showered kisses in 
profusion upon her lips — embraces and caresses 
which she was far from rejecting or refusing. 
Poor child ! she could not read what was passing 
in that black heart of his, and she vainly fancied 
his love was as pure and unselfish as her own. 

“ God bless you for that promise,” he said. 
“ See, the moon is rising. She shall be witness to 
our pledges, and so long as she rolls her nightly 
rounds, and in due season sheds her light upon the 
earth, so long shall our love endure. And as, 
though at times obscured by clouds and darkness, 
she ever returns with her gentle beams to gladden 
and beautify the earth, so shall we, though at 
times perchance separated for a season by some 
cruel fate, ever return to each other with joy and 
gladness in our souls.” 

Mary could not reply. Her heart was too full, 
but in a silent ecstasy of joy she lay motionless 
in his arms, truly fearing that the whole scene 
was a delusive dream from which she should all 
too soon awaken. While she lay thus entranced 
on his bosom they were startled by a footstep 
upon the gravel walk, and the next instant Mary 
entered the arbor into which the moon was now 
brightly shining. Although she had followed 
Jones to the garden and had witnessed the whole 
scene, she started with well counterfeited surprise 
and astonishment at what she saw before her. 


106 


CHRISTLIKE. 


Mary recovered her self-possession in an instant 
and releasing herself from the ardent embrace of 
Jones, she sat by his side and said : 

“ Mary, you are astonished, but you need not 
be. She is a good and true friend of mine,’’ she 
continued, turning to Jones and speaking of Mary, 
and we need not fear to tell her all. “Mr. Jones,” 
she continued, again addressing the treacherous 
servant girl, “has just asked me to be his wife, 
and I have agreed to do so.” 

“ I am so glad dear Mary for your sake, for I 
know you will be happy with him,” replied she 
with feigned joy, kissing her heartily as she 
spoke, “ but what will your parents say to this ? 
For I judge they have intended you and Harry for 
each other.” 

In explanation of this last remark the reader 
must understand that Mary had made a confident 
of the chambermaid and had imparted to her not 
only the relationship she sustained to Dr. and 
Mrs. Bay, but also the scene which had transpired 
between herself and Harry in the arbor at home, 
the result of which had been so dissimilar to the 
one just enacted there. 

“ I do not think they will refuse their consent to 
our union when they know that my happiness de- 
pends upon it,” she replied with tender confidence. 
“ They love me dearly, and I am sure will not re- 
fuse me. I shall write to them about it this very 
night.” 

“ I do not think you had better do so,” said 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


107 


Jones, who saw in this the defeat of all his devil- 
ish aims. “ You know they do not like me, es- 
pecially your mother, and I fear if you write them 
about our engagement, they will come at once and 
take you home. Rather let us first marry and 
then they will not withhold their blessing and 
forgiveness.” 

“ No, William,” replied Mary, earnestly, “ I 
cannot do that. Much as I love you I cannot con- 
sent to marry you without their knowledge and 
their blessing. Never fear their refusal. They 
have never refused me anything, and I am sure 
they will not now in a matter of so much import- 
ance as this.” 

“Mary is right,” said Mary, giving Jones, unob- 
served by her, a most expressive glance, “ happi- 
ness could never attend a union unblessed by 
parental sanction. Let us go to the house, and do 
you, Mary, write them this very night and I will 
carry the letter to the post-office, and in three or 
four days at the farthest you will have their 
hearty blessing.” 

“Being in the minority, I suppose I shall have 
to submit,” said Jones, in a pleasant tone, and ris- 
ing, they proceeded to the house, where, with an 
affectionate kiss he bid Mary good night, and went 
to his own room, while the girls, turning in an op- 
posite direction, were soon locked within the pre- 
cincts of Mary’s chamber. 

Mary threw herself into the arms of her friend, 
sobbing with joy, and exclaimed : 


108 


CHRISTLIKE. 


“ Oh ! Mary, I am so happy, and yet it seems 
almost like a dream, and I am afraid I shall 
awake all too soon. Tell me, is it really true, or 
am I asleep and dreaming ?” 

“ No, indeed, my dear Mary,” replied the wily 
and deceitful girl, “ you are wide awake, and are 
the happy betrothed of one of the noblest men in 
the world. I could almost find it in my heart to 
envy you your future happiness, but that I love 
you too well.” 

“ Be assured, my dear friend,” replied Mary^ 
tenderly, “ that in my happiness I shall never for- 
get her who has been such a friend to me in my 
loneliness. You shall live with us until you 
marry some one worthy your noble and generous 
nature, and then we will live near you and witness 
your happiness.” 

“ You are too kind,” replied she ; “but now go 
and write your letter, and I will take it to the 
office, for it is getting late.” 

Mary seated herself at the table, but her brain 
was in such a whirl of excitement that she could 
liardly write. Several letters were consumed and 
destroyed before she got one to suit her, but at 
last she succeeded in finishing one which she 
thought would do, and handing it to Mary, the 
servant, kissed her and bade her an affectionate 
good night, and then, as soon as the girl had left 
the room she undressed and sought her couch. 

But it was long ere she could sleep. Her whole 
brain was in a fever of excitement, and for hours 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


109 


she lay and tossed from side to side, musing upon 
the events of the evening. A few hours before she 
was but a lonely and desponding schoolgirl, far 
away from home and friends ; now she was sud- 
denly developed into a woman, and the betrothed 
of her heart’s choice, who was, she doubted not, 
quietly sleeping under the same roof with her. 
Alas ! how was she mistaken. At that moment 
her betrothed, instead of being locked in the arms 
of sweet, refreshing slumber, was engaged in per- 
fecting a scheme to destroy all her future happi- 
ness. 

At length she slept, and dreamed that she was 
walking along a path which led through a beauti- 
ful mead spangled with every variety and hue of 
the most beautiful flowers. The sun shone bright- 
ly, while a pleasant zephyr, laden with the per- 
fumes of the immense flower bed around her, 
fanned her brow and imparted a delicious coolness 
to the atmosphere. The air was vocal with the 
warbling of birds singing their sweetest notes, and 
everything lent its aid to gladden and beautify the 
scene. Discovering a cluster of flowers of rarer 
beauty and fragrance than any other around her, 
she reached her hand to pluck it, when suddenly a 
hissing serpent started from their midst and struck 
his fangs deep into her arm, and with a loud cry 
of terror she awoke. Was it a premonition of im- 
pending fate ? 


110 


CIIRISTLIKE. 


CHAPTER YIII. 

As SOON as the faithless Mary had received the 
letter from the hand of Mary, she started out, as 
Mary supposed, to deposit it in the postoffice, but 
instead of doing so, she sought at once the room of 
William Jones, whom she found impatiently 
awaiting her. 

“Well,” said he, in a querulous tone, as soon as 
she came in, “what did you want to oppose me 
for ? I intended to marry her without her parents’ 
knowledge, for as soon as they learn anything 
about it, the fat will be all in the fire.” 

“You intended to marry her, did you?” said 
the woman, sneeringly. “The more fool you, 
that’s all I’ve got to say. A pretty wife she’ll 
make, with her baby, spoilt-child sort of ways.” 

“ Oh ! come, Mary,” said he, yawning, “ don’t let 
us have a scene. You know very welPwhat I 
mean, and there is no use getting your back up 
about the matter.” 

“Now you talk sensibly,” said the girl, some- 
what mollified. “But I thought from the tone in 
which you spoke that you had allowed this girl, 
with her pretty face, to make a fool of you, and i* 
naturally made me a little angry.” 

“Ha! ha! Is that all? You are not a bit jeal- 
ous now, I suppose,” said he, chucking her famil- 
iarly under the chin. 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


Ill 


“Jealous ! no. Why should I be jealous? Don’t 
be a fool if you can help it,” said the woman, 
spitefully. “ This is a simple matter of business 
between us, and it matters not a whit to me 
whether you succeed or not, so I only earn and 
receive the compensation you promised me. And 
now have done with your nonsense and let us pro- 
ceed to business.” 

“With all my heart. What is it?” 

“Here,” said she, producing it as she spoke, “is 
the letter she has written home, and which she, 
poor fool, thinks is already* on the way to Kittan- 
ing.” 

“Well, what is to be done with that?” 

“What is to be done with that? You seem 
very stupid. I really believe your partial success 
has turned your brain. Of course there is but one 
thing to be done. You are to take it, and at the 
proper time write an answer to it in her father’s 
name, consenting to the marriage, and urging that 
it be solemnized at once. Then your way is clear 
enough, is it not ? ” said the woman. 

“But that would be forgery.” 

“What of it? I don’t imagine that would hurt 
you much, or add anything to the weight of guilt 
already on your soul.” 

“But of course she would know that it was not 
her father’s handwriting, and that would spoil 
all.” 

“You are master enough of the pen to avoid all 
that.” 


112 


CHRISTLIKE. 


“ But I have never seen any of his handwriting, 
and know not how to imitate it.’’ 

“ I have arranged for all that. While she was 
writing this letter, I stole two or three of her 
father’s letters from her dressing-case, upon which 
they were lying. Here they are,” said she, pro- 
ducing them. “And now you must go to work 
and get up an answer to this, send it to some one 
in Kittaning, and have it mailed there, and of 
course she will think it is genuine. You must be 
very careful what sort of a letter you write.” 

“You must help me compose it,” said he, with 
evident admiration of her genius in the concoction 
of villainy. “I confess you are smarter than I 
am.” 

“Well, let us first read what she has written.” 

And tearing open the missive, the conspirators 
proceeded without further delay or parley to 
analyze its contents. Mary had written a very 
kind and affectionate letter, speaking in the high- 
est tones of her betrothed, informing her parents 
of what had taken place, and asking their consent 
to the union and their blessing on the same. After 
reading and sufficiently commenting upon it, they 
set to work to prepare a suitable reply, and after 
much erasure and changing, produced the follow- 
ing: 

Kittaning, May — , 18 — . 

My Dear Daughter: Your note of is 

received. It has produced no little surprise, and 
some degree of regret, both to your mother and 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


113 


myself, for we had indulged a hope that you and 
Harry might one day be united in the same holy 
ties which you now propose to form with another. 
And knowing as we do that his heart was set on 
this but increases our disappointment. 

Nevertheless, my dear daughter, we do not 
desire to throw any impediments in your way to 
happiness, and believing your affianced to be a 
worthy young man, we freely give our consent to 
the union, and with it our heartiest blessing. We 
have only to recommend that the marriage take 
place before your return home, as otherwise we 
fear an unpleasant scene with Harry, who I am 
satisfied really loves you. Immediately upon 
your marriage (which, on Mr. and Mrs. Shepley’s 
account, we think should be very private) we shall 
expect you and your husband to visit us and 
receive our warmest welcome. Let us know when 
you will come, and we will meet you at the depot. 

Accept, my dear daughter, for yourself and 
your intended, the best wishes of your mother, 
and especially of 

Your affectionate father, 

Samuel C. Bay. 

P. S. I enclose a note to Mrs. Shepley telling 
her we are about giving a party and want you to 
come home. This will account for your leaving 
school so suddenly. Hand that to her. This let- 
ter you had, perhaps, better destroy, as we think 
it desirable for certain reasons that your marriage 

should be kept private for a time. S. C. B. 

8 


114 


CHRISTLIKE. 


When this villainous composition had been com- 
pleted, Mary betook herself to her own room, while 
Jones, first carefully locking the door to avoid the 
possibility of intrusion from any source, set him- 
self to copy it, imitating as closely as possible the 
handwriting of Dr. Bay. As his confederate had 
said, he was a perfect master of the pen, and in 
due time he had produced a copy which so closely 
resembled Dr. Bay’s chirography that very close 
scrutiny, indeed, would be required to show that 
it was a counterfeit. This letter he dispatched to 
a “ chum ” or “ pal ” of his at Kittaning, with in- 
structions to mail it within a day or so after its 
receipt. This instruction, it may be remarked, 
was not complied with until his “ pal ” had opened 
and read the letter, thus getting an idea of the 
scheme of villainy on foot, carefully treasuring up 
the information thus obtained for future usefulness 
and profit, after which it was duly mailed to ac- 
complish its villainous object. 

But a few days had elapsed after the betrothal 
of Jones and Mary, until Mary brought her a let- 
ter just taken from the post-office. She glanced at 
the post-mark, saw that it was from home, and for 
a moment was so much agitated with her contend- 
ing emotions that she hesitated to open it. Hope, 
anticipation, doubt and fear were each struggling 
for the mastery, but presently she broke the seal 
and began to read. Mary watched her closely to 
see if she had any suspicion of the vile plot of 
which the letter was the culmination, but she had 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


115 


read but a few lines when all doubt vanished, for 
a light as of the most radiant happiness over- 
spread her countenance, and with a cry of joy she 
exclaimed : 

Oh ! Mary, I am so happy. Father and moth- 
er give their free consent and their blessing. We 
will go home in a few days, and, dear Mary, you 
must go with us.” 

‘‘ I was sure they would not refuse you,” replied 
the treacherous girl, folding her in her arms, “any- 
thing so important to your happiness. How kind 
they are.” 

“ They are the dearest father and mother a girl 
was ever blessed with,” replied Mary, with a full 
heart. “ But where is William ? Run, Mary dear, 
and tell him to meet me in the arbor. Bear spot, I 
shall always remember it, and date my true hap- 
piness from the time I .met William Jones there. 
Oh ! Mary, my happiness is now perfect,” and she 
burst into tears. 

Jones was in the arbor almost as soon as she 
was, and the character of the interview between 
them may be imagined by the reader. It was 
such as might be supposed to take place between 
two pure and loving souls from whose pathway 
every obstacle to the consummation of their heart’s 
desire and their perfect haiDpiness had been re- 
moved. And upon Mary’s part all was sincerity 
and truth. She believed Jones to be as good and 
pure as she was herself, and that she was just en- 
tering upon a life of pure enjoyment with a con- 


116 


CHRISTLIKE. 


genial soul, while he, deceitful villain that he was, 
read the letter which she put into his hand as 
though he had never seen it before, and then with 
lying lips mingled his expressions of congratula- 
tion and thankfulness with hers. 

After some discussion it was finally settled be- 
tween them that they should leave Huntingdon the 
next morning, go to Blairsville, where William 
asserted that he had a sister living, be married 
there and then proceed to the home of Mary’s par- 
ents, reaching there on Saturday. Suddenly Mary 
remembered, what she had for a time forgotten, 
that there was a letter for Mrs. Shepley enclosed 
in the one she had received, and telling her lover 
of it, she hastened away to deliver it before that 
lady should retire for the night. She found Mrs. 
Shepley in her room preparing for bed, and the 
following conversation ensued : 

“ Why, Mary, child what ails you ? I supposed 
you were in your room long ago, but here you are, 
and you seem very much excited. What can it 
mean 

“ Oh ! Mrs. Shepley,” said she, eagerly, “ I am 
to go home to-morrow. I have a letter from father 
to that effect, and here is a note for you, which was 
enclosed in mine. Probably this will explain 
all.” 

Mrs. Shepley took the note, read it over, and 
then said : 

“ This seems very strange. Here,” said she, 
producing a letter from her pocket, “ is a letter 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


117 


from your mother saying she will be here on Sat- 
urday, and here is another dated but one day 
later, directing us to send you home. What can 
it mean 

“ Most likely,” said Mary, “ she was coming for 
me but finally concluded she could not, and there- 
fore sent this note to you. But I must go, for I 
think there is going to be a wedding, and I would 
not miss it for anything.” 

“ Why do you think there is going to be a wed- 
ding ?” 

“Oh!” said Mary, not entirely truthfully, “it 
has been talked of for some time.” 

“ But who is to be married ?” persisted Mrs. 
Shepley. 

At this Mary blushed and hesitated, but finally 
replied : “ Cousin Harry, I think.” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Shepley, “I do not under- 
stand it at all, but at any rate, we shall of course 
make no effort to detain you when your parents 
summon you home. So now, my child, retire to 
your own room, and in the morning the carriage 
will be ready to take you to the depot. Good- 
night.” 

“ Good night, my second mother,” said the girl, 
kissing her with genuine affection as she left the 
room. 

On her way to her room she fell in with Jones 
and told him all about her interview with Mrs. 
Shepley. “ And now,” said she, with great glee, 
“ I’ll write and tell papa and mamma that they 


118 


CHRISTLIKE. 


may expect us on Saturday next.” 

But to this he of course objected. It was no 
part of his plan to allow her to communicate with 
her parents until his schemes were accomplished, 
and he at once entered an earnest and lo\^er-like 
protest against her writing until she was Mrs. 
Jones, telling her that there would be plenty of 
time to communicate with them after that happy 
event should have taken place. Finally, perceiv^ 
ing that he was really in earnest in what she re- 
garded as a mere whim, she yielded, and gave him 
her promise to write no more letters until she 
could sign them Mary Jones instead of Mary Bay, 
and with a kiss of tenderest affection they parted 
for the night. 

It may seem strange to the reader that the pecu- 
liar circumstances attending the approaching mar- 
riage of Mary did not cause her to suspect that 
something was wrong and hold her back from the 
sacrifice she was about to commit. The sudden 
change in the intentions of her mother, as evi- 
denced by the letter Mrs. Shepley had received, 
and the note inclosed in Mary’s letter — the request 
of her parents, so strange and unnatural, that the 
marriage should take place away from home and 
should be kept from Mrs. Shepley — the absurd and 
insufficient reason given for the request — the fact 
that Jones was unwilling to be married at Hunting- 
don where Mary was acquainted somewhat, and 
where the ceremony would be witnessed by those 
whom she knew — his unwillingness to have lier 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


119 


write home — all these were certainly suspicious 
circumstances, and in the light of the events al- 
ready detailed, and the knowledge we have of 
the intentions of William Jones, leave her almost 
without excuse. But it must be borne in mind, 
dear reader, that she was not possessed of this 
knowledge ; that from the state of excitement 
under which she was laboring, she was not capa- 
ble of judging and weighing circumstances as 
calmly and dispassionately as we can at this dis- 
tance of time ; that she had the most implicit 
trust in her betrothed, and that as yet she had 
seen no reason for suspecting him of any but the 
purest motives and intentions. And when all 
these facts are taken into the account, let us ask 
who in her situation, ignorant as she was of the 
devices and wickedness of the world, would have 
scrutinized more closely than she did ? Oh ! no, 
it was simply a struggle between an innocent, un- 
suspecting girl on one side, and two unprincipled 
schemers, familiar with every device of Satan, on 
the other, and the contest was too unequal to hope 
for her success. 


120 


CHRISTLIKE. 


CHAPTER IX. 

There are times in the life of every one when 
they shrink with indefinable but almost all con- 
trolling dread from the consummation of some en- 
terprise in which, nevertheless, their whole soul is 
enlisted — something which is the full fruition of 
their hopes and desires for a long period of time, 
but from which, on the eve of completion, they 
stand back with a lingering dread arising from 
the mysterious awe with which feeble and finite 
humanity is wont to contemplate the dim and un- 
revealed future — a consciousness of the inability 
of our limited and imperfect vision to penetrate 
the vail in which our destiny is wisely enfolded, 
or to foresee and avoid the shafts which fate may 
have stored up for us in her remorseless quiver. 

So it was with Mary on the night with which 
the last chapter closes. The morrow would doubt- 
less witness the consummation of the full measure 
of her heart's desire ; would see her the bride of 
William Jones with the full sanction (as she sup- 
posed) of her parents, and she could not doubt 
that her happiness would be complete, and yet, 
the importance and solemnity of the step she was 
about to take weighed heavily upon her spirits 
and effectually banished sleep from her eyelids. 
What if she should after all have been deceived ? 
What if Jones should not prove the faithful and 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


121 


loving husband he had promised to be ? Wh-at 
if, instead of augmenting her happiness by this 
union, she should only be consigning herself to a 
life of misery and wretchedness ? 

These and a thousand similar doubts occupied 
her mind until the first faint streaks of dawn be- 
gan to tinge the eastern skies, when she arose and 
dressed herself for the contemplated journey. 
Mary was at hand to aid her, and, by artfully 
painting the happiness in store for her, to confirm 
and strengthen her sinking spirits, and by the 
time William tapped at her door and informed her 
that the carriage was in readiness, she was fully 
equipped for the ride, and they at once set out. 

Jones had obtained permission from Mr. Shepley 
to accompany Mary to the depot, and as the car- 
riage driver might have been somewhat in the way 
of the successful carrying out of his plans, he had 
decided to get rid of him, and accordingly had told 
him to go and do his morning’s work and he (Jones) 
would drive to the depot and back himself. Mrs. 
Shepley kissed Mary tenderly, charged her with 
kindly messages for her mother, wished her a 
pleasant journey, and they set out; but instead of 
driving to the depot, Jones turned to the left into a 
street which led out of town on the road to the 
next station, about five miles away. When Mary 
asked the reason for this course, he laughed good- 
naturedly and replied : 

“ Why, my dear, the morning is pleasant, and 
as carriage riding is so much more delightful than 


122 


CHRISTLIKE. 


traveling on the cars, I thought we would stick to 
it as long as possible. Besides, I do not care 
about taking the cars where every one will know 
us. Have you any objections ? ” 

“ Oh ! no,” replied Mary, “ I agree with you 
entirely, but that plan did not occur to me before ; 
and certainly riding in the carriage where we can 
interchange ideas and thoughts is far preferable 
to the clatter and confusion of the cars. How I 
wish we were going all the way in our own con- 
veyance.” 

“That, of course,” replied Jones, “is out of the 
question, we should be too long in getting to our 
destination.” 

“ You are quite right,” said Mary, “ but it would 
be so much more pleasant.” And then after a 
pause she added, “ What a lovely morning this is.” 

“ Beautiful, indeed. A most auspicious omen, 
is it not, that we should begin our journey under 
such favorable circumstances ? Let us regard it as 
indicative of the happiness which shall ever attend 
us along the journey of life on which we are about 
entering.” 

“ Oh ! that the omen may indeed prove pro- 
phetic,” said Mary, in terms of earnest solemnity. 

“ Why does my darling speak with so much 
feeling ? ” asked Jones in tones of apparent con- 
cern. “ One would almost think that you regretted 
this step, or that you were afraid to intrust me 
with your happiness. But it is not so, surely ? ” 

“ No, William,” replied she, while the love-light 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


123 


gleamed from her eye and overspread her whole 
countenance, “ I do not fear to trust you with my 
happiness, my life, my all. Had it been so, I 
should never have started on this ride with you. 
Still it is a solemn thought to give one’s self to an- 
other for life, and you must not blame me if I feel 
a little depressed in view of it. But, believe me, 
dear William, I would not recall a single word that 
I have spoken, or a single step that I have taken 
in connection with you. Oh ! no, I do not distrust 
or doubt you in the least.” 

Where was William Jones’ conscience that no 
remorse for his intended treachery toward her was 
awakened in his bosom, as Mary thus poured out 
her heart’s purest treasures before him ? Alas ! a 
long course of familiarity with every form of sin 
and vice had seared and calloused that monitor 
until its voice was no longer raised in warning him 
from the path of wrong, and the only feeling pro- 
duced in his breast by her words of simple trust 
and confidence was one of exultation at the evi- 
dence they afforded of how completely she was in 
his power. 

In due time they arrived at the station, and 
Jones had barely time to engage some one to take 
the carriage back to Huntingdon when the train 
came thundering along with its living freight of 
joy and sorrow, of sadness and sunshine, of wealth 
and poverty. They took their seats and in a few 
seconds were whirling away in the direction of 
Blairsville, where they arrived about four o’clock 


124 


CHRISTLIKE. 


in the afternoon. Calling a carriage they entered 
it, and William gave some direction to the driver 
in a low tone, at which that worthy bowed, mount- 
ed the box and drove oif. After riding what 
seemed to Mary a long way, they drew up before 
a large house in the eastern part of the town, and 
the driver, opening the door, said, “ This is the 
place.” 

“Wait a moment, Mary,” said Jones, as he 
sprang from the carriage, “ until I see if my sister 
is at home,” and he ran up the steps and entered 
the house without stopping to ring the bell. In 
about ten minutes he returned, and said, “My 
sister has just gone down in town, but will soon 
return, and meantime I have a sister-in-law here 
who will make you welcome. He assisted her to 
alight, and dismissing the carriage they entered 
the house together, where they were met by a very 
good looking but rather gaudily dressed woman of 
about forty, whom Jones introduced as his sister- 
in-law. She kissed Mary with considerable ap- 
parent warmth, and then led the way to the 
parlor. 

After conversing a few moments she excused 
herself and left the room, and Mary had a chance 
to look about her. The room in which they were 
was furnished with a profusion of richest furni- 
ture, but there was a want of taste and harmony 
which struck her somewhat painfully, while some 
of the pictures and ornaments, of which there were 
a great many, displayed a freedom and boldness 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


125 


which was quite shocking to Mary’s well cultivated 
sense of propriety. Jones, too, appeared ill at 
ease, and altogether she was far from feeling 
happy, and she was much relieved when the 
woman came back and said ‘‘ the lady ” could go to 
her room now if she wished. 

“ Come, my dear,” said Jones, rising and offer- 
ing his arm, “ I will see you to your room, and 
then I think you had better go to bed soon, for I 
am sure you must be weary with our long jour- 
ney.” 

And he conducted her up stairs, the woman 
leading the way, and into a room furnished with 
the same profusion and want of taste which had 
so struck Mary in the parlor, and yet it would 
have been difficult for her to say just exactly what 
it was that she objected to. Everything was of 
the richest and most expensive character, but 
there was a kind of garish air and appearance 
about the whole house, so far as she had seen it, 
which filled Mary with some vague apprehensions 
that something was wrong, though she hardly knew 
what. 

“ This will be your room while we stay here,” 
said Jones, and mine will be the next room. And 
now,” said he, turning to the woman, who still re- 
mained in the room, “ Will you have supper 
brought up here for us? Mary is too tired to go 
down, and we will take supper here, and she can 
be presented to the rest of the family in the morn- 
ing.” 


126 


CHRISTLIKE. 


The woman bowed and left the room without a. 
word, and in a short time returned with a tray 
upon which was spread a very nice supper. But 
Mary could not eat. Everything was so strange, 
so constrained and formal ; there was so little cor- 
diality between William and his pretended rela- 
tives, that she could not prevent some suspicions 
that all was not right from being engendered in 
her mind. Jones saw the cloud gathering in her 
mind and upon her brow, and he strove most as- 
siduously to remove it and restore her confidence 
until such time as it suited him to reveal the full 
truth, and for this purpose he redoubled his 
endearments and attentions, urged her to partake 
of the supper, or at least to drink a cup of tea, but 
when she refused either, alleging a headache as 
the cause, he finally ordered it taken away, and 
the woman in grave silence as heretofore obeyed 
his directions. 

And now, as soon as they were alone, he 
revealed his true character. Approaching the 
door, he locked it, and placed the key in his 
pocket, and turned to Mary, who was so terrified 
that she could hardly ejaculate. 

“William, what does that mean? Why did 
you lock the door?’’ 

“To keep out intruders, my pretty bird,” he 
replied, with a leer so full of evil intent that she 
could not misinterpret it, and at once burst into 
tears. 

“Oh! William, William,” she cried in anguish, 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


127 


‘‘what do you mean? You have not deceived me? 
You could not be so base. Oh! tell me who and 
what these people are.’’ 

“Calm yourself, my dear Mary,” he replied. 
“ Surely you are not afraid of any evil befalling 
you while in company with your Willie. You do 
not think I would allow any one to come near j^ou 
to do you any wrong, do you?” 

“I hardly know what I think. Oh! William, 
take me away from here. I am afraid to stay 
here. I cannot but think there is something 
wrong about this house, and will not stay here 
save as your wife. Go, William, and call a min- 
ister, and let us be married, and then I shall be 
content, and not till then.” 

“Well, Mary,” said he, in a tone so altered as 
to arrest her attention at once, for in it was the 
cold sternness of one who has been acting a part 
and has at length reached a point where dissimu- 
lation is vain, “it is useless to deceive you any 
longer. You may as well be calm and submit to 
what is not in your power to prevent. The letters 
which induced you to come here were never writ- 
ten by your father and mother. They were forged 
in answer to yours, which was never sent. Here 
it is,” and he drew it from his pocket and handed 
it to her. “This woman is no relative of mine, 
but — ” 

She heard no more. The revulsion of feeling 
consequent upon these startling revelations had 
overwhelmed her, and with a low cry of, “God 


128 


CHRISTLIKE. 


help me,’’ she fell fainting to the floor. Happy 
had it been for her had she never awakened from 
that deathly swoon. 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


129 


CHAPTER X. 

Three weeks have passed since the close of the 
last chapter — three weeks fraught with untold 
misery to thousands of fallen humanity — three 
weeks of unmitigated sorrow and wretchedness to 
Mary, who still remains a close prisoner in the 
house where he left her. She is not allowed to go 
out at all, and is so closely watched that it is im- 
possible for her even to write to her parents, and 
they have lost every trace of her. Ah! what 
would she not give for the means of communi- 
cating with Harry Bay in this fearful time of 
trial. How gladly would she, lost, ruined as she 
is, have hailed a visit from him, well assured that 
he would release her from the terrible bondage 
which was eating into her very soul; but vain 
hope. 

Xo communication is suffered to pass from her 
to any human being — no one sees her save the 
woman who daily brings her meals, and acts as 
her jailer, and who is the one introduced by the 
villain Jones as his sister-in-law. Even the mis- 
erable comfort of his presence is denied her, for 
he has been gone for several days ; and to every 
inquiry addressed to her cruel jailer as to his 
return or intentions ; to every frenzied appeal for 
mercy or aid; to every prayer for liberty, she 
receives but the answer of studied silence. His 
9 


130 


CHRISTLIKE. 


orders to the heartless woman who is mistress of 
this den of iniquity had been very strict and im- 
perative upon this point, and with a most demo- 
niac faithfulness she adhered to them. 

Days rolled away into eternity, and when at 
length six weeks of weary imprisonment had 
passed away, William Jones presented himself 
before her. How her soul rose up in loathing at 
the sight of him who had so cruelly deceived and 
wronged her; who had blighted her young life, 
and who had made her a vile and despised out- 
cast. 

“Well, Mary,” said he, in careless and indiffer- 
ent tones, which revealed the innate depravity of 
his heart, “and how goes the world? I hope you 
are rather more reasonable than when we last saw 
each other.” 

“ I suppose,” said Mary, bitterly, “ that it was 
not sufficient for you to blight my very existence 
and render life a burden to me, but you come here 
to taunt me with the misery which you have been 
the sole means of producing. Monster! how I 
loathe the very sight of you.” 

“ Oh, very well,” said he, coldly, turning on his 
heel as he spoke, “if that is the way you are 
going to talk, this interview may as well be ended 
at once. I hate scenes,” and he started to leave 
the room. 

“ William 1 William 1 ” she cried, almost sick 
with the horror at the prospect of another long 
period of solitary incarceration, “for God’s sake 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


131 


do not leave me here. Only take me away from 
this wretched place, and I will submit to anything 
you may require. Take me away, or kill me at 
once.” 

‘‘Ah ! now you begin to be a little more sensi- 
ble,” said he, returning into the room again, “ and 
we will see what we can do. I will take you away 
upon your giving your solemn promise to obey 
my directions in two or three particulars which I 
deem of importance to my safety.” 

“Anything,” she replied, eagerly; “ I will prom- 
ise anything so I but get out of this wretched 
prison.” 

“Well, then, listen. You are to promise not to 
attempt any communication with any of your 
friends. You are to go with me wherever I wish, 
and never say to anyone but that you are my 
wife. Lastly, you are not to indulge in any more 
such tantrums as you have been having of late, 
under penalty of my leaving you at once to shift 
for yourself. These are my terms. What say 
you ? ” 

“I will do anything you wish to get away from 
here.” 

“Yery good. Get yourself ready to leave, and 
I will go for a carriage at once,” and so saying he 
left the room. 

In a short time he returned with a carriage, into 
which he handed Mary, and springing in after her 
he took a seat by her side, and they whirled away 
in the direction of the depot. Arriving there they 


132 


CHRISTLIKE. 


entered the cars and were soon away, Marj^ knew 
not whither, nor did she much care. Any place 
were better, she thought, than the one she was 
leaving. 

After riding some time in silence, she ventured 
to ask him where they were going. 

“ To my home,' ’ he replied, “ and now you are 
to remember that you are my wife, Mrs. Hartford. 
My name is William Hartford — remember.” 

She could not understand why this change of 
name, but made no reply. After a ride of some 
fifteen hours they stopped in a large city where 
everything was strange to her. 

“ Where are we ?” she at last ventured to ask. 

‘‘ We are in the city of Pittsburgh,” he replied, 
“and now remember what I told you. We are 
William Hartford and wife. If any one should 
ask you your name before marriage it was Smith. 
Do you hear ?” he asked, with significant empha- 
sis. 

Mary heard, but she made no answer. He called 
a carriage and they entered, and as they drove off 
she asked where they were going, declaring that 
she would die before she would go to another such 
place as the one he had just taken her from. 

“ Is this your promise ?” said he. “ But never 
mind,” he added hastily, “ I am going to take you 
to respectable people. I am going where I have 
made arrangements for the board of myself and 
wife with a very respectable German family in a 
remote part of the city. So make yourself easy, 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


13S 


and if you conduct yourself properly you will 
have a good home and will have everything you 
want.” 

“ I shall keep my promise,” said Mary, in a 
choking voice, while her eyes filled with tears, 
“ and now I want you to keep yours, and make 
me your wife in truth, as well as in name.” 

“Wait until I see how you conduct yourself. 
If you behave aright toward me I will do so,” he 
replied, coldly. 

By this time they had arrived at a neat white 
cottage almost in the suburbs of the city, and a 
lady of plain but highly respectable appearance 
came forward to assist Mary out of the carriage, 
bowing in recognition of Jones as she came up. 
She conducted them into the house, and as she 
was assisting Mary to remove her wrapping, asked 
Mary what her name was. 

“ Mary Jones,” she replied. 

At the mention of this name, Jones bit his lips, 
and the blood mounted into his forehead in a crim- 
son flush. Her husband coming in a moment after, 
the landlady introduced them to him as Mr. Jones 
and lady. Jones was boiling over with rage, but 
he dare not contradict Mary for he felt sure that 
should he do so, she would not hesitate to reveal 
the true state of aifairs between them. They soon 
retired to their own room, and then the pent-up 
wrath of Jones burst forth. 

“ What do you mean, madam ?” he hissed 
through his clenched teeth. “ Why did you not 


134 


CHRISTLIKE. 


do as I told you ? Why did you say your name 
was Jones ?” 

“ Because,” replied Mary, “ if my name is not 
Jones it ought to be, and I am determined to bear 
your name if you still refuse to marry me. You 
duped and betrayed me under that name, and I 
know you by no other, and you need not try to 
play it on any other.” 

Jones was furious with rage, but Mary was firm 
in her determination, and he was forced to yield. 
Besides it was now too late to repair the mischief 
she had already done, and he did not dare to 
wreak physical vengeance upon her, and after 
storming about the matter for some time, he final- 
ly submitted, only telling her that another trans- 
gression of his orders would result in his leaving 
her to shift for herself. And with this threat upon 
his lips, they descended to the dining-room, where 
he treated her with all the kindness and attention 
which a husband could bestow upon the most 
dearly beloved wife. Oh ! the hypocrisy of the 
world. 

For three weeks Mary and Jones remained at 
the house of Mr. Betts, and then Jones informed 
them that he was under the necessity of leaving 
for a short time to attend to some business of im- 
portance which required his presence elsewhere. 
The nature of the business he did not make known 
to their host and hostess, or to Mary — bad as she 
knew him to be, and as he knew she knew him to 
be, he dared not make known to her the nature of 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


135 


the business which called him away — but we will 
avail ourselves of an author’s privilege, and men- 
tion it. 

He was at this time one of the organized gang 
of villains and desperadoes who infest all our 
large cities, and whose ramifications extend into 
almost every community, often including men 
whose position and standing in society place them 
above the reach of suspicion. Forgery, counter- 
feiting, larceny and pocket-picking are among the 
most ordinary crimes of these bandits, and not un- 
frequently their plans are so well laid, and their 
depredations so skillfully committed as to baffle 
discovery and set at fault the ingenuity of the 
most experienced detectives, while at other times 
some trilling event, carelessly overlooked, leads 
unerringly to the detection and arrest of the un- 
lucky perpetrators. And on such occasions, 
neither time, trouble nor expense was spared by 
the gang to again set at liberty their confederates 
ill crime. 

It was precisely such an occasion as this which 
now summoned Jones from his home. In a de- 
scent made upon the coffers of a wealthy farmer, 
one of the most active and useful members of the 
gang had fallen into the iron clutches of the law, 
and was then in jail awaiting trial for his many 
crimes. Jones’ skill in the use of the pen, and 
consequent value as a forger, had given him a high 
position in the gang, and to him was now assigned 
the task of devising and carrying out a plan for 


136 


CHRISTLIKE. 


the release of his fellow-villain from the confine- 
ment which was already so irksome, and which 
threatened such dire results in the future. And 
this was the business which now called him away. 
A letter received the evening before from one of 
the high officials of the infamous order had in- 
formed him what was expected of him, and he at 
once set about carrying out his instructions. It is 
entirely foreign to the purpose of this story to fol- 
low him through the organization and successful 
execution of his nefarious plan for evading the 
just vengeance of the law from the guilty head of 
his confederate — it is sufficient for us to say that 
his efforts were but too successful, and that one of 
the most notorious villains of the age was once 
more allowed to go un whipped of justice. 

Before leaving, he paid one month’s board for 
Mary, gave her fifty dollars in money, and in an 
interview with Mrs. Betts urged her to do all she 
could to make Mary comfortable, and with a 
promise to her whom he had sadly deceived that 
he would soon return, and that he would redeem 
his promise and make her his wife upon rejoining 
her, he left her with all the simulation of affec- 
tion which he could have displayed had he been 
one of the noblest of men and she his lawful wife. 

But, however much Mrs. Betts may have been 
deceived by this pretended love, Mary was not. 
She had long since lost all confidence in him, and 
she regarded his departure at this time simply as 
a desertion. She did not believe he would ever 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


137 


return, or that if he did he would ever many her, 
and so redeem her from the life of shame and mis- 
ery to which he had consigned her by his infamous 
villainy. But what could she do ? She was an 
outcast and an object of contempt and scorn — re- 
turn to her school she could not, nor to Dr. Bay’s, 
and she saw no relief from the fearful bondage 
which oppressed her. But her necessities were pro- 
vided for for the present, and she decided to remain 
where she was for a time, hoping almost against 
hope that something might turn up by which her 
deliverance could be effected. 

Jones had been gone just a week when she re- 
ceived a letter from him. It was without any head- 
ing to indicate his whereabouts, and she tried in 
vain to decipher the post-mark, or to obtain the 
least clew even as to the direction in which he had 
gone. But although he had taken such evident 
pains to conceal his whereabouts, this letter was a 
great comfort to Mary and did much to restore her 
fast-waning confidence in him, for despite all his 
ill-treatment and deceit of her — the truth must be 
confessed — she loved him still. The letter was 
couched in very affectionate terms : spoke of his 
loneliness while away from her ; his hopes of be- 
ing able to rejoin her before long ; renewed his 
promise of marriage upon his return, and so on. 
And like thousands of women who have loved and 
been deceived, and then have loved and trusted 
again, poor Mary hugged his false protestations 
and hollow promises to her heart, cherished them 


138 


CHRISTLIKE. 


in her inmost soul, and fondly believed he would 
yet redeem his plighted word. 

Such is the long-suffering, patient love of a true- 
hearted, pure and noble woman. When the price- 
less treasures of her heart have once been laid 
upon the altar of the shrine of her affections, the 
flame of her devotion gleams brightly and steadily 
athwart the horizon of life, unquenched and un- 
quenchable, ever cheering and vivifying us with 
its ardent rays, and though the luster of its burn- 
ing may be dimmed and even partially obscured 
by the cold ashes of bitterness, neglect or abuse, 
let but the slightest breath of affection fall upon 
it, and the flame once more streams up bright and 
pure and beautiful as before. So it was with Mary. 
She loved William Jones with all the ardor and 
unselflsh devotion of her pure and noble nature, 
and though his deceit and abuse of her had for a 
time destroyed, or rather suppressed, her confi- 
dence in him, but these few words of kindness and 
love were necessary to cause her to forget all the 
wrong of which she had been the victim, and once 
more trust the words which he had already so often 
broken. 

The letter informed her that it would be out of 
his power to return as soon as he had hoped and 
expected to when he left ; that he could not now 
tell just when he would come, but in a few weeks 
at the farthest ; that circumstances would not ad- 
mit of his writing again until he came, and wound 
up by telling her to keep up her spirits, not to be 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


139 


uneasy and he would be with her again in four or 
five weeks at the most. And Mary, poor dupe 
that she was ! allowed herself to be cheered and 
comforted by these promises and these honeyed 
words, and sat down calmly to wait the period of 
their fulfillment. 

But the longest period set for his coming passed 
by; then a week followed; then a month, two 
months, and still he came not. What could it* 
mean ? 

‘ ‘Hope deferred maketh the heart sick. ’ ’ 

And so it was with Mary. As the days slowly 
glided away into eternity, she still on each return- 
ing evening whispered to herself, “ He will surely 
come to-morrow,” until at last even the light of 
this hope faded out in her bosom, and she slowly 
settled down into the heart-breaking conviction 
that she was really and finally deserted. And as 
this conclusion forced itself down into her mind, 
she tried to refiect upon the awful condition to 
which her association with him had reduced her, 
until it seemed to her that her brain must go wild. 

At last in a sort of frenzy of despair she deter- 
mined to write to Dr. Bay, confessing all, telling 
them how she had been duped and deceived by the 
villainy of Jones, and imploring them once more 
to afford her the shelter which had so long been 
her protection and safety. And with her eyes 
almost blinded by scalding tears she seated her- 
self to her task. 

I wish it were in my power to reproduce before 


140 


CHRISTLIKE. 


the reader this sorrowful letter. Could each one 
see it as I have seen it, all blotted and stained 
with tears, full of heart-broken meanings and bit- 
ter self-reproaches — the vocal utterance of that re- 
pentance and remorse which was consuming her 
soul — it is not within the compass of any human 
heart to withhold its forgiveness for the error she 
committed in remaining with William Jones after 
she discovered the villainy of his black heart, and 
learned how he had deceived her. Perchance but 
very few of my readers would have had the cour- 
age and hardihood under the same circumstances 
to have done what she should have done — aban- 
doned him at once, and denouncing him to the 
world, have trusted a generous public for protec- 
tion against him — but still her compliance with 
his demands were none the less an error for which 
there can be no apology, and for which nothing 
but the most sincere contrition and repentance can 
in any degree atone. And that Mary then experi- 
enced this repentance, this letter affords abundant 
evidence. But the document has been mislaid, 
and after the most diligent search, I regret to say 
that I am unable even to furnish the reader a copy 
of it. 

At length her missive was completed, and plac- 
ing it carefully in her pocket, she started for the 
post-office to mail it. It was with a beating heart 
that she went forth to make this last effort to 
escape from the vortex of sin and shame which 
had so well nigh overwhelmed her. Judge then of 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


141 


her dismay when she opened the front door and 
stood face to face with him from whose clutches 
she was just trying to escape, the destroyer of her 
peace — William Jones ! She reeled as if struck 
by a bullet, but recovering her self-possession in a 
moment, drew her veil more closely about her face 
and attempted to pass him without speaking. But 
he seized her by the arm and led her back into the 
room she had just left. 

“Ah, ha ! Miss,” he hissed in a savage tone, “ so 
you are above speaking to William Jones, are 
you? ” 

She was so dumbfounded and terrified at the evil 
passions flaming from his eyes, that she was un- 
able to reply. 

“ Perhaps,” he continued, with cool, diabolical 
villainy, “you are sorry to see me. If so I am 
ready to leave you.” 

“ Yes, William,” she replied, with the courage 
of despair, “ I am sorry to see you. I wish you 
had not come back, for then I would have been 
happy once more. But now all my hopes are 
blasted.” 

“ Pray, tell me, if it suits your ladyship,” said 
he, sneeringly, “what you would have done to 
support yourself in this new-found happiness. 
Perhaps you have another lover who can do more 
for you than I can. If so, it is all right, for it is 
about all I can do to support my wife and family 
without spending much money on you.” 

“ Your wife and children,” she murmured, with 


142 


CHRISTLIKE. 


a sickening sensation at her heart, for she did not 
dream that he had merely invented this ready lie 
to facilitate his desertion of her. 

“Yes, my wife and children,” he replied, with- 
out regard to her intense agony. “I was married 
and had three children long before I ever saw 
your baby face. Hence you see the necessity of 
economy in my dealings with such as you.” 

But she heard not the taunt contained in the last 
sentence, for overcome by the violence of her emo- 
tions she had swooned and fallen to the floor. He 
made no effort to revive her, but bending over her 
lifeless form he coolly proceeded to examine her 
pocket, and of course found the letter she had just 
written. Opening it with the skill of his practiced 
villainy, he read it through. 

“Ah, ha ! ” said he to himself, “ this is what she 
was up to. Well, I don’t think I am quite ready 
to have Dr. Bay come down on me with this letter 
to stimulate and guide his vengeance. I’ll fix that 
if she only don’t revive too soon.” 

And seating himself at the table he proceeded 
to write a note giving a brief account of Mary’s 
death and burial, signed it “ Martin Harris,” put 
it in the envelope in place of the one she had just 
written, and carefully sealing it, restored it to her 
pocket, she remaining all the time in a state of un- 
consciousness. He then threw water in her face 
and she opened her eyes, but immediately closed 
them when she saw him bending above her. 

“Come,” said he, roughly, “we’ve had enough 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


14S 


of this. You had better get up and let us come 
to some understanding.” 

She rose without repljdng, and he assisted her 
to a chair. 

“ Now,” said he, “ I am ready to leave, since you 
wish it. Here,” he continued, producing a roll of 
bills from which he counted out fifty dollars, “ is 
all the money I can afford to give you. And I 
suspect you had better leave this place. They 
think you are my wife now, and if you go away 
they will never know any better.” 

She took the money and simply said, “ I wish 
you would leave me — I want to go out.” 

“Yery well,” said he, taking his hat, “I hope 
you may get along pleasantly with your new 
lover.” 

“ William Jones,” said she, turning toward him 
with flashing eyes, “ beware how you trifle with 
me, for I am desperate. I have no lover, as you 
ought to know. I am going to Dr. Bay’s, the only 
true friend I ever had.” 

“ Oh ! oh ! ” said he sneeringly, “ what a pretty 
thing it is when it is angry. Going to Dr. Bay’s, 
are you ? That is vevy bright. Do you suppose 
they will have you in their house ? I should rather 
think not. That is the last place you would find 
shelter, but you can try it. I should think, how- 
ever, you had better write and announce your com- 
ing before you go blundering in there. You might 
get turned out again, you know, and that would 
not be so pleasant.” 


144 


CHRISTLIKE. 


“For mercy’s sake, leave me,” she murmured 
faintly, her momentary flash of anger having left 
her as suddenly as it came, and shuddering, she 
covered her face with her hands. 

“ Certainly, my love, since you desire it. Good- 
bye. Happiness attend you,” and turning on his 
heel he left the room. 

Left to herself, the pent up emotion of her soul 
gave way and she burst into a flood of tears. “Oh ! 
God,” she moaned in the bitterness of anguish, 
“ grant me Thy strength to bear this heavy burden 
of sorrow.” But no prayer for vengeance upon her 
seducer arose to her lips or welled up in her heart. 
Oh ! no. Her soul was too pure and tender to for- 
get for one moment that He has said, “Vengeance 
is mine and I will repay.” 

Long time she sat thus, then remembering her 
letter and the mighty interest to her depending 
thereon (she knew nothing of the fraud which had 
been practiced upon her), she felt in her pocket, 
found it safe, as she supposed, and removing so far 
as she was able the traces of tears from her coun- 
tenance, she went and mailed it; then returned 
and sat down to think over her situation and what 
was to be done. 

She had flfty dollars in money, but she owed 
something on her board — nevertheless she thought 
that would last her until her letter would reach 
her home when she made no doubt the Doctor would 
hasten at once to her relief. And with this pleas- 
ing reflection she solaced herself to something like 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


145 


composure, and at tea time met the family with 
hut few traces of extraordinary emotion. Poor 
child ! she little imagined the effect which would 
really he produced hy the letter from which she 

hoped and anticipated so much. 

10 


146 


CHRISTLIKE. 


CHAPTER XL 

Let us return for a short time to the residence 
of Dr. Bay, and contemplate the effect upon that 
happy household of Mary’s sudden and almost 
mysterious disappearance. 

As the reader is already aware, Mrs. Bay had 
written to Mrs. Shepley that she was coming to 
visit Mary on the Saturday following her flight 
with Jones, and on Friday a letter had arrived at 
the Huntingdon postoffice for Mary requesting her 
to meet them at the depot with the carriage on the 
following day, but of course, this letter was never 
received. It was, however, brought to the Shepley 
school with the rest of the mail ; and being mailed 
at Kittaning, where Mary was supposed to be, ex- 
cited some suspicion that all was not right, espec- 
ially as Jones had not been seen since her depart- 
ure. 

On Saturday, Mrs. Bay, accompanied by Harry, 
left home for the Shepley school. Arriving at the 
depot, in Huntingdon, they were not a little sur- 
prised at seeing neither Mary nor the carriage 
waiting for them, and at once became apprehen- 
sive of some evil, though their worst imagining fell 
far short of the reality. They anxiously inquired 
of the by-standers if any of the Shepleys or their 
pupils were ill, and upon being assured that those 
of whom they inquired knew of no sickness there, 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


147 


Mrs. Bay became so impatient to know what could 
have prevented Mary from complying with their 
request of the day before that she could hardly 
wait while Harry found a carriage to take them to 
their destination. 

Arriving there, they met Mrs. Shepley, whose 
surprise at seeing them was only equaled by theirs 
at not meeting Mary. 

“ Where is my child ?” said Mrs. Bay, without 
even waiting for the customary salutations, “ and 
why did she not meet us at the depot as usual 

“ Your child !*’ said Mrs. Shepley in atone of 
astonishment too genuine to doubt its sincerity, 
“ is she not at home 

“ At home ? why no. Why should she be at 
home ? You do not mean to say she is not here.’’ 

“ I do, indeed.” 

“ Where is she then ? Oh I Mrs. Shepley if you 
have failed in your duty to her, I will hold you to 
a terrible responsibility,” said Mrs. Bay, almost 
wild with alarm and terror of — she knew not 
what. 

Calm yourself, my dear Mrs. Bay,” replied 
Mrs. Shepley, though she was herself but little 
less excited than the lady she addressed. “ There 
is some terrible mistake here, but let us hope for 
the best.” 

“But where is my child ?” 

“ I will tell you all I know of her. This letter,” 
said Mrs. Shepley, producing the one Mary had 
handed to her, “ was brought to me by Mary her- 


148 


CHRISTLIKE. 


self last Tuesday evening. I was not a little sur- 
prised, having but the day before received one 
from you informing me that you were coming to- 
day, but, of course, I could not say anything, and 
the next mofning she left.” 

“ Let me see that letter,” and Mrs. Bay glanced 
hastily over its contents. “ I never wrote that let- 
ter in the world,” said she. “ Oh ! Mrs. Shepley, 
my child is forever lost, I fear. Did any one go 
with her?” 

“ Yes, Mr. Jones went to see her to the depot ; 
sent a carriage back by a boy, with a message to 
the effect that he had decided to accompany Mary 
all the way, and has not been here since. We 
supposed he was visiting at your house, but I see 
it all now,” she continued, speaking rapidly. 
“ You say you never wrote that letter. It has been 
forged for the purpose of deceiving me, and she 
and William Jones have eloped together.” 

Mrs. Bay covered her face with her hands and 
sank back in a chair, almost fainting. 

“ Oh ! Mary, Mary,” she moaned aloud, “ where 
are you ? How could you deceive us all ?” 

“ Be calm, my dear aunt,” said Harry, who had 
silently listened to the sad disclosure, his voice 
tremulous with emotion, “ Mary has not deceived 
us. She has been the victim of the basest treach- 
ery and deceit, and I will find her if she is alive, 
and bitterly shall her wrongs be avenged. That 
villain Jones is at the bottom of the whole of it, 
and God being my helper, I solemnly swear never 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


149 


to rest until he has answered for his crime against 
her.’^ 

“ Oh ! Harry,” almost shrieked Mrs. Bay, “ find 
her and restore her to me, and I will forever bless 
you.” 

“ She shall be found if she is alive,” he replied, 
his fine dark eyes suffused with tears, and every 
muscle quivering with emotion, “ and fearful ven- 
geance shall be taken for her wrongs.” 

And assisting his aunt to a room where she re- 
clined upon a bed, he hastened at once to the tele- 
graph office to summon Dr. Bay to the scene. 

The doctor came on the first train, and upon ar- 
riving he was as much surprised at the situation 
of affairs as any one, and his emotion was little 
less violent than that of his wife. He had learned 
to love Mary as his own child, and her fall had 
almost overwhelmed his heart with its weight of 
sorrow, but like Harry, he recognized the necessi- 
ty of immediate action, and together they set 
about the apparently almost hopeless task of find- 
ing the lost one. 

Their first step was to find the boy who had 
brought back the carriage on the morning of their 
flight, and then to their astonishment they learned 
for the first time that Jones and Mary had gone to 
another station to take the cars. Thither they 
went, and were there fortunate enough to find a 
man who knew Jones by sight and had been pres- 
ent when he purchased two tickets for Blairsville, 
and had seen him enter the cars in company with 


150 


CHRISTLIKE. 


a young lady. Of course this could be none other 
than Mary, and to Blairsville they went, where 
they succeeded in tracing the fugitives to the 
house at which they had stopped. 

But there all trace of them was lost. The peo- 
ple at the house were unable or unwilling to give 
any account of their movements from that time for- 
ward, and after having spent several days in a 
vain attempt to ascertain in what direction they 
had gone, they were compelled reluctantly to give 
it up and return home. 

But the search was by no means discontinued. 
The next step was to advertise in the papers, of- 
fering liberal rewards for any information which 
would lead to her discovery, and patiently they 
waited for some response, but in vain. This effort 
was as bootless as the other, and Harry then em- 
ployed two or three professional detectives to con- 
tinue the search. Their efforts, however, though 
stimulated by proffers of the most ample compen- 
sation, were equally unavailing with those of 
Harry and the doctor, and it seemed that they 
must fail. Mary could not have been more com- 
pletely hidden had the angry ocean opened its 
mouth and swallowed her up, than she seemed to 
be in the maelstrom of sin and vice in which she 
was engulfed. 

The days grew into weeks, and weeks into 
months, and still no tidings from the lost one, and 
still Harry was as unremitting in his search for 
her as ever, and still he confidently asserted that 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


151 


sooner or later he should find her. But suspense 
and grief were making fearful inroads upon the 
aged form of Dr. Bay. His whole soul was bound 
up in Mary, and her departure from the path of 
rectitude preyed upon his spirit and was rapidly 
wearing out his life, and it soon became painfully 
evident that he would not endure the struggle 
much longer. His wife felt the loss as keenly as 
he did, but her spirits were more elastic than his. 
She, too, possessed, in her sincere faith in the Lord 
Jesus Christ, a sustaining power which he lacked, 
and the effects of the blow were less visible in her 
than in him. 

At last the mail brought a letter to Dr. Bay. 
He started as his eye fell upon the address, for he 
recognized Mary’s well-remembered hand-writing. 
With trembling fingers he broke the seal, glanced 
over its contents, and with a low groan allowed it 
to fall from his nerveless hand to the floor. Terri- 
fied at what she saw, Mrs. Bay hastened forward, 
picked up the letter and read it. It was the one 
which Jones had substituted in lieu of the one 
written by Mary to inform her parents of her 
whereabouts, and beg their permission to return 
to the shelter of their home, and with the contents 
of which the reader is already somewhat familiar. 

The receipt of this letter was the finishing blow 
to Dr. Bay. Of course he did not believe that 
Mary was dead, for there was her own handwriting 
upon the envelope to contradict such a supposi- 
tion, but he regarded it as evidence of her entire 


152 


CHRISTLIKE. 


abandonment of a life of virtue, and he never 
recovered from the shock. In a few short weeks 
his weeping wife and nephew followed his remains 
to the tomb. Ah ! how much of pain and anguish 
the heartless brutality of man causes to his fellow 
man ! 

Harry, however, was not disposed to give up the 
chase, notwithstanding the opinion of his lamented 
uncle. As soon as the last honors had been paid 
to his memory, he set out for Pittsburgh ; that be- 
ing the place at which the letter was mailed, noth- 
ing doubting, that there he should be able to gain 
some tidings of her whom he had so loved. But 
he was destined never to reach the end of his 
journey. 

Our readers cannot have forgotten the terrible 
calamity on the Pennsylvania Central Railroad 
about ten years since, which filled so many happy 
homes, not only in that State but elsewhere, with 
the voice of lamentation and mourning. For 
some time it was impossible to obtain correct lists 
of the killed and wounded, and hence to the grief 
of those who knew the extent of their losses was 
added the agony of suspense of the thousands 
who supposed .they might have friends upon the 
ill-fated train, and of whose fate they were unable 
to gain any tidings. 

Harry Bay was one of the victims of this sad 
disaster. As he was hastening on his mission of 
love and mercy, without the least warning, and 
without the fault of any one, the calamity over- 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


153 


took the fated train, and he, like many fellow- 
passengers, was in a moment buried beneath the 
debris of wrecked and rained cars. When extri- 
cated it was found that he had sustained fearful 
contusions of the head and body, and though still 
living, his injuries were at once pronounced fatal. 
He never regained his senses or spoke, but in a 
few hours his soul winged its way from its man- 
gled tenement of clay to the bosom of his Father 
and his God. 

Mrs. Bay was now left alone in the world; her 
only near relatives were gone, and she was getting 
old and feeble, and bowed beneath the weight of 
the fearful trials which had been meted out to her 
in such rapid succession. She was still able to 
say, “Thy will be done,” but she felt that her 
trials were almost too heavy to be borne alone 
and without the society and sympathy of friends. 
She accordingly decided to accept the invitation 
of a young married lady by the name of Annie 
Lake, who had been an intimate friend of Mary 
in her happier days, to make her home with her, 
and proceeded to sell her house and furniture pre- 
paratory to doing so. She almost wept at the 
thought of the dear old place, where she had lived 
so long and so happily, passing into the hands of 
strangers, but there seemed no help for it, and so 
the sacrifice was made. 

Behold, then, the results of the villainy of 
Jones ! Mary is an outcast ; her adopted father 
hurried to his grave by grief at her supposed. 


154 


CHRISTLIKE. 


defection ; Harry a victim of disaster encountered 
in his efforts to reclaim her; her mother among 
comparative strangers, an exile from the home 
which would soon cease to be known as the resi- 
dence of the kind-hearted doctor — an entire fam- 
ily, as it were, destroyed, and even their abode no 
longer known among friends and neighbors. 
Surely, unless his heart be harder than the nether 
millstone, the pangs of remorse must haunt his 
hours, both sleeping and waking, with terrors be- 
yond the power of human tongue to tell ; but no, 
the wretch who, for the sake of a momentary grat- 
ification, can deliberately set about the ruin of an 
innocent and confiding girl, must possess a con- 
science incapable of being moved by anything 
short of the thunders of Divine vengeance, which 
he will surely hear at the great day when all shall 
stand before the bar of the immutable Judge to 
receive the reward of the deeds done on earth. 

But Jones’ evil work was not yet completed. In 
order to drive Mary to despair, and, if possible, 
prevent her ever returning to the life of virtue and 
peace from which he had taken her (so desperate 
does the constant contact with evil render the 
human heart), he had still another forgery to com- 
mit, and, without his seared conscience uttering a 
single reproof, he set about it, believing that in so 
doing he would lessen the chances of his detection 
und well-merited punishment. 

The reader will readily conceive the intense 
eagerness with which Mary looked for the arrival 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


155 


of an answer to the letter which she supposed she 
had sent to her parents, and which she fondly 
hoped would be the means of her restoration. At 
length came a letter bearing the Kittaning post- 
mark and addressed to her in the well-known 
handwriting of her adopted father. With what 
trembling eagerness she broke the seal, but at the 
first glance what bitter disappointment filled her 
soul. The letter was as follows (the author has 
read it) : 

“Ungrateful Child: Having left us in the 
way you did, after all that we had done for you, 
never expect to darken our doors again. Far bet- 
ter had it been for us to have let you died in in- 
fancy under the treatment of Mrs. Brown, than to 
have taken you to our bosoms and nursed you as 
we have, only that you might cover us all with 
infamy and disgrace. You have brought our gray 
hairs with sorrow to the grave, and we never wish 
to see or hear from you again. 

Your deeply-wronged friends, 

“Dr. and Mrs. Bay.’’ 

Mary could hardly read this cruel letter to the 
close, and then moaning, “I am lost, I am lost,” 
she threw herself on the bed and gave way to the 
violence of her emotions. “ Oh ! ” she sobbed, 
“ had they but sent me one kind word, they might 
have saved me, but now I am forever lost, and I 
care not what I do, or what becomes of me.” 
Poor child! She little suspected that Dr. Bay 


156 


CHRISTLIKE. 


had neither seen her letter nor written this one, 
but that by the machinations of her seducer her 
own letter had been prevented from reaching him, 
and that the one before her was the work of the 
same pen whose diabolical skill had been so 
potent in working her ruin; but, as the reader 
understands, such was the fact. 

But violent outbursts of grief seldom last long ; 
they wear themselves out by their own force, and 
so it was in the present instance. Mary in due 
time became comparatively calm, and, after 
reflecting upon the situation in which she was 
placed, she resolved to make one more etFort to 
escape from the fate impending over her, and 
toward the consummation of which circumstances 
seemed to be hurrying her with such frightful 
rapidity; but how should she set about it? What 
could she do? The blackness of despair almost 
enveloped her as she again turned to contemplate 
the horrid future, deserted by all her friends, as 
she believed herself to be, but resolutely shutting 
her eyes to the horrid nightmare which was slowly 
creeping upon her. She determined to acquaint 
her landlady with the situation, of affairs and seek 
her advice. So accustomed had Mary been all 
her life to depend upon some one else ; so ignorant 
was she of the world and its ways, that she dared 
not adventure any means of escape from the 
dilemma in which she was placed without the 
advice and encouragement of some one older and 
more experienced than herself. 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


167 


It was after dark when she sought Mrs. Betts 
and told her the true relation existing between 
Jones and herself. She imparted to her, without 
reserve, all the circumstances attending the estab- 
lishment of that relation ; how she was cast off by 
her friends; her almost despair, and her intense 
desire to escape from the hideous fate which ap- 
peared awaiting her, and asked her advice and 
assistance. 

But neither her pitiful tale, nor the tears which 
accompanied its recital, awakened any sympathy 
or compassion in the heart of her listener. She 
only grasped at the fact that the weeping girl be- 
fore her was a social outcast, and with a spirit of 
uncharitableness, all too common in the world, 
she regarded her as a moral outcast also, her tale 
as a sheer fabrication to excuse her criminality, 
and her tears as the mere display of hypocritical 
emotion, instead of tears of penitence and sorrow, 
and she regarded her house and herself as con- 
taminated and defiled by Mary’s presence there. 

“You vile creature,” she replied, as Mary fin- 
ished her sorrowful tale, “how dare you come 
among decent, respectable people, and conduct 
yourself in the way you have ? But you shall not 
stay here anotlier hour. Pack up your things and 
leave here at once. I do not believe a word of 
your story about having been deceived, and all 
that sort of thing. Women like you always have 
plenty of lies at hand to excuse themselves. So 
you can just get away from here at once.” 


158 


CHRISTLIKE. 


Mary was so thunderstruck by this violent out- 
burst that for a moment she was utterly incapable 
of a reply. She had expected sympathy and kind- 
ness — she met reproach and contumely. At length 
she faltered a request “ to be allowed to remain 
there till morning.” 

“ Not another hour,” said the harsh and imperi- . 
ous woman. “You have already disgraced my 
house enough, and you shall go at once.” 

“But what can I do?” pleaded Mary, “if you 
turn me out o£ doors at this time of night? I 
know not where to go or what will become of me.” 

“ It is no difference to me where you go,” was 
the unfeeling answer. “ Such as you can always 
find places enough. You can go wherever you 
like or wherever you can find shelter. But you 
have imposed upon respectable people long 
enough.” 

“ Madam,” said Mary, with forced and unnatural 
calmness and dignity, “ you have said enough. I 
will go, and if at some future time you shall, per- 
chance, hear that I am lost and undone : the de- 
graded being you now take me for, and beyond the 
hope of redemption, you can console yourself with 
the refiection that it was your cruelty this night 
which drove me to the fate from which, God knows, 
it is my sincere desire to escape.” 

“ Let us have no more of your prating, but get 
yourself ready and leave my house immediately,” 
said the woman, leaving the room in which this 
interview had taken place. 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


159 


For a moment Mary was almost paralyzed with 
horror ; then murmuring, ‘‘ God help me, the whole 
world is against me,” she mechanically proceeded 
to pack her trunk, and in half an hour was stand- 
ing in the streets of Pittsburgh amid darkness and 
woe ; a wretched outcast, without even a shelter 
for her head. Where should she go ? What would 
become of her ? These vital questions forced them- 
selves upon her with the most painful, fearful dis- 
tinctness, and still she was unable to answer them, 
and still they again and again obtruded themselves, 
until her brain fairly whirled. 

But why follow her through her adventures on 
this fearful night, or recount the wretchedness of 
her plight, as she wandered alone and shelterless 
throughout the whole of that livelong night ? The 
reader may imagine all he or she can of the hor- 
rors of such a situation to one who had been 
reared amid the refinement and luxury which had 
characterized her life, and they will then fall short 
of the sad reality. 

And even when the morning came her situation 
was scarcely improved in the least. A stranger in 
a large city, without means even to pay a week’s 
board, all unused to work for a livelihood, and 
with scarce the ability or knowledge to do so, 
and with neither infiuence nor recommendations 
to enable her to procure work, even had she been 
qualified to perform it, her situation was indeed 
most pitiable. True, she succeeded in finding 
board and shelter for the time being, but how 


160 


CHRISTLIKE. 


was she to pay for it ? Her wardrobe was limited, 
and even if she resorted to disposing of that to pay 
her moderate bills, it would last but a short time, 
and when that was gone what was she to do? But 
she had no other resource, and piece by piece her 
clothing went, while she vainly sought employ- 
ment of some kind at which she could support 
herself. 

It may seem strange to my readers that a girl of 
Mary’s intelligence should have sunk into such 
abject poverty and destitution, but it must be 
borne in mind that she had been tenderly reared 
and was ignorant of the world and its ways, and 
this, together with her naturally timid and retiring 
disposition,^totally unfitted her to battle with the 
stern realities of life ! Alas I how many a poor 
fallen woman has been driven to a life of shame 
and degradation by the same causes now so thickly 
clustering around, and so fearfully pressing upon, 
poor Mary ! What a fearful account was her 
wretchedness and misery daily heaping up against 
William Jones in the eternal court ! How would 
his conscience, if not entirely deadened by contact 
with sin and vice, have smitten him could he have 
known of the suffering entailed upon this lovely 
and innocent girl by his villainy ? 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


161 


CHAPTER XIL 

Three years have passed since the close of the 
last chapter, and Mary, after numerous adventures, 
which it were vain and profitless to try to recount, 
was living in Cincinnati in the same squalid want 
and misery which environed her in Pittsburgh. 
Indeed, the miseries through which she passed 
would hardly be believed if detailed. Often suf- 
fering for food, sometimes even without a shelter 
for her head, her clothing (what little she had left) 
in rags and scarcely sufficient to hide her naked- 
ness, she was indeed in a most pitiable condition. 
One could hardly realize the existence of such des- 
titution in this happy land of ours, but that such 
cases are — to the shame of our charity be it said — 
by no means rare. 

But the reader will ask how she came to be in 
Cincinnati? Let us explain. This was in 1864. 

Mary who had long since despaired of earning 
anything like a comfortable subsistence in Pitts- 
burgh, resolved to go to Cincinnati, and by par- 
tially begging her way, she succeeded in getting 
there. But the difficulties of her position were by 
no means surmounted upon her arrival there. The 
same causes which combined to prevent her from 
accomplishing anything at the former place still 
followed her to the latter, and though in the hurry 

of military preparation, applicants for employ- 
11 


162 


CHRISTLIKE. 


ment were by no means closely scrutinized, still 
her employment in every place she tried was but 
temporary. Her want of skill and physical 
strength caused her soon to be discharged to give 
place to those who could accomplish more than 
she could, though not more willing to do all within 
her power, and again she was reduced to the verge 
of starvation. 

For months, then, she endured all the wretched- 
ness which had been her portion since her deser- 
tion by Jones. Sleeping in a miserable garret, 
often for days together without a morsel of food, 
save what she could beg, and then again earning a 
mere trifle by the performance of the most menial 
tasks, while she wore none but the cheapest, poor- 
est, and too often raggedest of clothes, her life was 
miserable indeed. And to have seen her pinched 
and bowed figure, surely no one would have recog- 
nized her as the lovely and happy Mary of former 
days, such fearful inroads had want and misery 
made upon her former rare beauty. 

One day, impelled by absolute starvation, for 
she had eaten nothing for upwards of twenty -four 
hours, she was on the street for the purpose of beg- 
ging the wherewith to procure a meal of victuals, 
when a gentleman in the uniform of a first lieuten- 
ant of the United States army passed by. Some- 
thing in his open, generous countenance encour- 
aged her to prefer her piteous suit to him, and as 
he turned to respond to her appeal, the glitter of a 
Masonic pin on his bosom attracted her attention. 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


163 


She had never thought of appealing to this noble 
fraternity before, but with the gleam of this jewel 
came a sudden thought that this was to redeem 
and save her. 

Pointing to the pin, she asked in tones of earn- 
est, trembling eagerness : 

“ Do you belong to that society ? ” 

‘‘I do,” replied the lieutenant, in some surprise, 
“ but why do you ask ? ” 

“I will tell you, ’ she replied, speaking rapidly 
and eagerly, while her eyes filling with tears and 
the trembling of her voice told how deeply she was 
moved, “ the time was once when I had some 
claims upon that fraternity. My father who died 
when I was a mere child was a Mason, and my 
adopted father, if he be yet alive, occupies an ex- 
alted position in the same order.” 

“ What then,” he asked “ is the meaning of your 
being here, a beggar on the street ? ” 

In answer to his astonished inquiry, she told 
him without reserve the history of her life for the 
past four years ; how she had been betrayed and 
deserted ; how her friends had cast her off and dis- 
owned her; how she had struggled with poverty 
and wretchedness — in short, all with which the 
reader is familiar. 

Lieutenant heard her painful story 

with attentive interest. He was no mean judge of 
human nature, and he was convinced the girl 
spoke the truth ; while her appearance confirmed 
her narrative in the most emphatic manner. At 


164 


CHRISTLIKE. 


its close he asked her where she lived. She 
blushed violently at this question, for the remem- 
brance of the miserable garret where amid filth 
and vermin she had found her wretched lodgings 
for the last few months, and the idea of calling a 
stranger there sent the warm blood to her cheek 
and tinged it with something of the beauty of for- 
mer days, but which long years of misery had 
sadly faded. After a moment’s hesitation, how- 
ever, she told him the street and number. 

“ I will go with you there,” said he, kindly, 
“ and we will see what can be done for you.” 

And drawing her arm within his own he led her 
away, never once heeding the smiles and wonder- 
ing looks of the bystanders. For was he not obey- 
ing the Divine command to succor the poor and 
the needy, as well as fulfilling the precepts of the 
order of which he was a worthy member, and so 
long as he trod the path of duty what cared he 
for the gibes and sneers of the world ? 

But if he pitied her upon hearing her story, how 
was his heart moved when he beheld the squalid 
misery by which she was surrounded in the miser- 
able place she termed her lodgings ? It was utterly 
devoid of even the smallest comfort ; not a chair 
graced the room, while a pile of what had once 
been shoddy blankets, but which were now little 
better than rags, was the only apology for a bed, 
and a small tin wash basin and a piece of broken 
looking glass furnished the only convenience for 
the toilet. 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


165 


The lieutenant looked around in unfeigned as- 
tonishment. 

“And is this,’’ he asked, “your only place of 
abode, and these the only comforts you have ? ” 

“ For months this has been my only home,” she 
replied, weeping, as she contrasted her present 
situation with what it had been before her 
acquaintance with Jones. 

“You shall never come here again,” said the 
young officer, impulsively. “ I will go at once and 
procure a suitable boarding-place for you until I 
can find a situation where you can earn an honor- 
able and comfortable livelihood.” 

“God will bless you and repay you for your 
kindness to one who is more than an orphan,” said 
Mary, falling on her knees before him and burst- 
ing into tears of gratitude. “ May he reward you, 
for I never can.” 

“ I ask no reward for simply doing my duty,” 
said he, his own eyes becoming suspiciously moist 
at the sight of her emotion, and turning, he has- 
tened away on his errand of mercy. 

In an hour he returned and told her he had 
secured temporary board for her with a poor but 
respectable family, who would furnish her plain 
but comfortable accommodations until she could 
find employment suited to her. 

“And now,” said he, “ let us leave this den for- 
ever.” 

She was too much overjoyed to hesitate, and in 
a few minutes she had left her wretched shelter, 


166 


CHRISTLIKE. 


as she fondly hoped, forever. For, cruelly de- 
ceived and betrayed as she had, once been, she 
still had confidence — the earnest, trusting confi- 
dence of a child — that her new-found friend was 
really what he professed to be, a friend indeed. 
And the sequel proved that in this instance, at 
least, her confidence had not been misplaced. 

They soon reached her new home, and giving 
her some money to enable her to procure better 
apparel than the rags she now wore, Lieutenant 

left her, promising to call again in the 

evening. For somehow his heart had been touched 
with a strange interest in the girl whom he had 
thus rescued from the very depths of poverty and 
wretchedness, and, aside from doing his duty 
toward her, he desired to know more of her than 
he had thus far been able to learn. He felt cer- 
tain she possessed a warm, trusting, confiding 
heart, and a refined, generous nature, which only 
required the magic touch of affection and kindness 
to develop her into a magnificent woman — one to 
whom any man might well pour out his heart’s 
choicest treasures. True, her life had been 
blighted, and the horizon of her morning sky had 
been o’ercast with thick clouds by the arts of a 
villain, but still he believed she was not past re- 
demption, and once redeemed he felt that the 
devotion of her life would richly repay the one by 
whom that redemption should be effected. 

For about a week she remained at the boarding- 
place which the kindness of her friend had pro- 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


167 


vided for her, and afc the end of that time one 
would have scarcely recognized her as the half- 

starved wretch who accosted Lieutenant in 

the street. She was neatly though plainly clad, 
and the genial air of kindness had banished the 
haggard and care-worn appearance which then 
pervaded her features, and she once more ap- 
peared something like her own former self. 

At last the lieutenant informed her that he had 
procured a situation for her in a highly-respect- 
able family to do plain sewing and care for the 
children, at wages which would be sufficient to 
afford her a comfortable support — that he had 
spoken to the lady of the house of her as his sis- 
ter, and that she must carry out the innocent de- 
ception, as she was a Mason’s daughter. 

‘‘ But, after all,” said he, “ I am not sure that it 
is a deception, for are you not really and truly 
my sister? I am a Christian.” 

Mary was too thankful for her deliverance to 
refuse obedience to his slightest request, although, 
as the sequel proved, in this “innocent decep- 
tion,” as he termed it, was the germ of much 
future trouble and sorrow to her. 

Entering the carriage he had brought, they were 

driven to the residence of Mr. , a well-known 

army contractor. It was a fine, comfortable-look- 
ing mansion, and Mary’s heart was elate with joy 
as she contrasted it with the miserable home she 
had lately occupied. Leaping out, the lieutenant 
assisted her to alight, and led her through the 


168 


CHRISTLIKE. 


well-laid-out grounds to the door. 

“ Remember,” whispered he, as he rang the bell, 

“ keep your secret,^’ and the next moment she was 
introduced to the lady of the house. 

Mary did not really like her appearance. She 
was richly, but rather gaudily and showily 
dressed, while her manners and the tone of her 
conversation were those of a person who had not 
long been accustomed to good society, but rather 
of one who, having suddenly become wealthy, 
attached undue importance to the possession of 
the riches so suddenly acquired. In short, she 
was one of the somewhat numerous class of the 
present day known as “shoddy aristocracy.” 
From a small but shrewd and enterprising country 
merchant, her husband, by the immense profits of 
his army contracts — profits which too generally 
came out of the comfort and welfare of the poor 
men who were periling life and limb in defense of 
the country upon whose troubles he was fattening 
— had suddenly become an immense capitalist — 
one who counted his dollars by hundreds of thou- 
sands — and his wife fancied that the wearing of 
rich clothes, and the assumption of lordly airs 
were the only means of showing off her superiority 
to the poor creatures who were dependent upon 
the wages received from her for their daily bread. 
Such, alas! for weak human nature, is too often 
the effect of suddenly-acquired wealth and ease, 
the possessors forgetting that as their riches came 
in a moment, as it were, so a breath might sweep - 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


lesf 

them away, and reduce them again to the level of 
poverty from which they had just escaped, and 
that after all, worth not wealth, is the true cri- 
terion of merit. 

Neverthless she spoke kindly, in her way, to the 
girl who was soon to become her servant, and 
Mary was too thankful for her deliverance to crit- 
icise too closely her new mistress. ’Tis true she 
told her companion privately that she was not, by 
her appearance, very much prepossessed in her 
favor, but still she had no doubt she could get 
along very well with her, and nothing should in- 
duce her to thwart the plans he had formed for her 
redemption. ‘‘ It shall not be my fault,” she said, 
“ if I do not stay here until you direct otherwise.” 

For several days the lieutenant called to see her 
each evening, and then he told her his regiment 
was ordered to the seat of war, and he must leave 
her. She shed many tears at this announcement, 
and surely her conduct at parting was not such as 

to give the lie to the story he had told Mrs. = 

relative to the relationship between himself and 
Mary. His kindness to her had so won upon her 
feelings that she could not have felt worse at part- 
ing with him had he been her own brother, and 
besides she felt some indefinable dread of evil 
again overtaking her when she should no longer 
have the protection of his influence, his strong 
will and his manly arm, and bitterly she wept as 
she clung to him in that sad hour. But the steru 
mandate of duty was irresistible, and kissing her 


170 


CHRISTLIKE. 


with all a brother’s warmth and fervor, he whis- 
pered to her to be of good cheer and all would yet 
be well ; told her to write him often, and hastened 
away to join his command which had already em- 
barked on board a steamer for Nashville. 

For some time Mary got along very pleasantly 
in her new home. Her duties were not very oner- 
ous ; the entire family were kind to her in their 
way, and the three children, who were much of the 
time under her chage, soon learned to love her 
dearly, especially the youngest. The fiery furnace 
in which she had been tried had intensified the 
natural gentleness of her spirit, and made her 
seem to them more like an angel than a human 
being, and soon gave her an influence over them 
which never waned during the whole of her stay 
there. She heard constantly and regularly from 
her friend and benefactor, and she really felt as 
though her troubles were forever past. 

“ Let no one call himself happy till death,” said 
Solon, and he said wisely. A period was approach- 
ing in the life of our heroine when the fair fabric 
of her present happiness was to be shattered at 
one fell blow — temporary, perchance, it might be, 
but nevertheless the temple she had erected was 
to be laid in ruins. As yet the storm by which 
this destruction was to be effected gave not even 
the slightest muttered warning of its approach, 
but it was none the less surely coming. 

The first blow was a letter from the regiment to 
which her friend belonged, written in a strange 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


171 


hand, and conveying the sad intelligence that he 
had received a wound which was by the surgeon 
pronounced fatal, and that he could probably sur- 
vive but a few hours — a day or two at most. She 
looked at the date of the latter — it was more than 
a week old — and he must even now be in his grave, 
and again she was alone in the wide, wide world, 
with no one whom she could call friend, or to whom 
she could turn for assistance in time of trouble. 
True he had been far away from her almost ever 
since she had known him, but still she felt that 
there was a bond between them which united them 
to each other and upon which she could rely with 
the utmost confidence, but now he was gone, and 
alone and unaided she must fight the weary battle 
of life in the future, and she wept tears of sincere 
affection and regret. 

But time in his flight brings healing to all, and 
so it was to poor Mary. Though she forgot not her 
friend and his kindness to her, nor ceased to mourn 
him with sincerest sorrow, her grief as a matter of 
course in time became less poignant, while the 
kindness of her employers, and the affection with 
which the children soon learned to regard her, did 
much to wean her from the contemplation of her 
grief. But a more fearful stroke was preparing 
for her ; one which for a time threatened to wreck 
forever her frail bark and cast her once more into 
the sea of misery from which she had so lately 
effected her escape. 

She had been about three months at Mrs. 


’s 


172 


CHRISTLIKE. 


house, when the incident to which allusion is made 

took place. Mrs. had some of her “ shoddy” 

aristocratic friends taking tea with her, and among 
them was a gentleman by the name of Tompkins. 
A highly cultivated and intelligent lady, possessed 
of Mary’s natural refinement (which even the de- 
moralizing life she had led had been unable to 
destroy), could find but little in common with the 
gay and somewhat boisterous party which filled 

Mrs. ’s rooms, and hence, though Mary was 

present for a time, she was very silent and re- 
served, and as soon as politeness would admit, she 
slipped away and sought the solitude of her own 
room. Arriving there she threw herself into an 
arm chair and was soon lost in a reverie from 
which, however, she was shortly roused by the 
violent throwing open of her door and the impet- 
uous entrance of Mrs. . Her countenance was 

flushed with anger, or some other violent passion, 
and her whole frame was quivering with excite- 
ment. So unnatural was her appearance that 
Mary for a time was unable to say a word, but 
rising in some alarm to her feet, she waited to 
hear what the lady had to say. And she had not 
long to wait. 

Advancing closer to her she hissed i “ You are 
a pretty creature, are you not ? To think of your 
coming into a decent, respectable house from such 
a place as you did, and with your innocent, saint- 
ly face to palm yourself off as a decent woman. 
For three months you have deceived us all, but I 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


173 


Lave found you out at last, and out of this Louse 
you go tLis very night.’’ 

“ What do you mean ?” faintly murmured Mary, 
the blood standing still in her veins and a cold 
tremor passing over her from head to foot, for she 
saw at once, as she imagined, an end to all her 
hopes of salvation. 

“ Oh ! yes. It is all very well for you to play 
innocent, and pretend you do not know what I 
mean. It is all of a piece, and it won’t do now. 
Pack your traps, I tell you, and be off.” 

“ But first tell me of what you accuse me,” said 
Mary, though her heart told her all too truly what 
was the cause of this attack. 

‘‘ You impudent hussy,” replied the woman, “ to 
ask of what you are accused. You know very 
well what it is. Tell me, did you not live at 
Pittsburgh with a man by the name of Jones, and 
did you not come, after nobody knows what other 
disgraceful scenes, to my house to impose upon 
us ^ 

In her blind rage she had' forgotten that Mary 
was not the author of the deception, but that the 
lieutenant, who was quite a favorite of hers, was 
the responsible party. But this unmerited taunt, 
and the implied attack upon the character of her 
deceased friend, aroused in Mary something of the 
spirit of combativeness, and her voice was firmer 
and steadier when she again spoke. 

“ What you say about myself, madam, is true — • 
what you say about my deceased friend, Lieuten- 


174 


CHKISTLIKE. 


ant , is not,” she replied. “ That I lived with 

Jones at the place you mentioned is true ; but it is 
not true that I ever sustained any degrading or 
disgraceful relation to that brave soldier and true, 
noble man. We met by accident; he learned my 
wretched, suffering condition, and as a Mason, 
adopted me as hi^ sister, placed me in a position 
to earn an honest and honorable livelihood by the 
labor of my own hands. This was the whole of 
our relationship to each other, and I will not tame- 
ly submit to have his memory slandered, whatever 
may be my merits or demerits. He at least is 
above reproach, and could he burst the bounds of 
the grave in which his mangled remains now lie 
moldering, his lips would confirm every word I 
have uttered.” 

But not even this eloquent defense could touch 
the stony heart of the weakly, proud woman who 
Stood before her. She was destitute of all those 
fine feelings and sensibilities which thrill in the 
heart of a truly refined woman, and she could 
think of nothing but the disgrace which she im- 
agined had been heaped upon her. 

“ But what could have induced you to come and 
impose upon me in such a way ?” she asked. 

“ I came,” replied Mary, pathetically, “ because 
he asked me to, and because I knew not what else 
to do. I had been deceived and led into sin and 
shame — I had for years been upon the brink of 
starvation, and desired to escape from it, and when 
the means were offered by a true Christian that 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


175 


wanted to save me, what could I do but avail my- 
self of them ? And since I came here I defy any 
one to show that I have deviated in the slightest 
particular from the life he would have had me 
lead. Is it not so?” 

“ How do I know what you have done ? ” said 
the woman, roughly. “ I only know that you 
have lied to me, and you must leave here this very 
night.” 

“But can I not stay till morning?” asked Mary, 
in a choking voice, for she could not but remem- 
ber an incident almost identical with this which 
occurred three years before, and the consequences 
of which had been so disastrous to her. 

“ No, you cannot. If you are not out of my 
house in one hour I will have you put out by the 
police,” replied the woman, rudely, as she banged 
the door and went down stairs. 

“ God in heaven, have mercy upon me ! ” said 
Mary, as soon as she was alone. “Am I never to 
escape from the dreadful consequences of my sins? 
Is there no hope for such as I? Will Christ refuse 
me ?” 

And with this piteous wail of an almost break- 
ing heart she set about making her preparations 
to leave, and in less than the time allowed her by 
the tyrant cruelty of her late employer she had be- 
come a homeless wanderer in the streets of Cin- 
cinnati. 

But the reader will ask how Mrs. became 

acquainted with her character. The explanation 


176 


CHRISTLIKE. 


I 


is simple and easy. Among her guests was a 
weak-eyed young man of great wealth, but whose 
brain was as void of ideas as is the exhausted re- 
oeiver of an air-pump, and whose principal avoca- 
tion consisted of cultivating a sickly-looking sandy 
mustache, every hair of which, in spite of pomade, 
persisted in standing in its own peculiar direction, 
and searching the city over for the latest style of 
unmentionables — who gave much more attention 
to the fit of his coat than he did to the troubles 
and dangers which were at this time convulsing 
our unhappy country. His feeble brain gave him 
just sufficient interest to appreciate Mary’s beauty, 
and he had during the evening made some ad- 
vances to her which were quietly and in the most 
lady-like manner rejected. When she withdrew 

from the room he hastened to Mrs. to make 

inquiries about her. That lady was at the mo- 
ment in conversation with Tompkins, who as soon 
as he heard the inquiry, burst into a loud and ill- 
mannered laugh. 

“ That,” said he, “ is a girl that used to live at 
Pittsburgh with a man by the name of Jones, who 
passed her off* as his wife till he got tired of and 

left her. I think, my dear Mrs. -, servants 

must be very scarce when you have to employ 
such as she is.” 

“Are you sure of what you say ? ” demanded the 
lady, “ because if you are, she leaves this house 
this very hour. I don’t keep that kind of stock 
about my house.” 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


177 


“ Sure of it ! of course I am, and if you ask her 
she won’t dare to deny it,” said the youug man in 
the free-and-easy style characteristic of the class 
to which he belonged. “ I knew Mr. Jones when 
she lived there.” 

“ That is enough for me,” said the woman, and 
leaving the room she ascended to that of Mary 
to enact the scene we have portrayed ; and having 
thus performed an act of cruelty and hard-heart- 
edness over which angels might weep and demons 
rejoice ; having done what lay in her power to in- 
sure the destruction of the poor unfortunate who 
sought to escape by her own exertions from the 
cesspool of wretchedness and possible infamy into 
the higher and purer atmosphere of peace and 
happiness ; having, as she thought, demonstrated 
her devotion to refinement and good breeding by 
thrusting back the poor wretch into the world of 
woe she had just left, she descended to her parlor 
to chatter silly nonsense with and smile upon the 
young man who, by his own confession, was an as- 
sociate of those upon the bare suspicion of being 
one of whom she had just indulged in such bitter 
reviling and denunciation of the unfortunate. 
“ Oh ! consistency, thou art a jewel,” Oh ! shame, 
where is thy blush, when woman in the same mo- 
ment condemns with scorn and loathing the 
destroyed of her own sex, and smiles upon and 
caresses the destroyer. Is this Christ-like ? 

Turn we again to poor Mary. For a time she 

stood almost stupefied with horror at her situation. 

13 


178 


CHRISTLIKE. 


Again she was alone and friendless in the streets 
of a large city, an entire stranger, destitute even 
of a shelter from the storm which was threatening 
to burst over the earth, and for a brief space she 
stood undecided what to do. The muttering thun- 
der warned her that delay was dangerbus, and 
leaving her trunk where it was, she set out in 
search of a stopping-place. She might have gone 
to a hotel, but thisj situated as she was, would 
have been but to invite suspicion and perhaps 
subject her to indignities she would gladly avoid, 
and so, weary and heart-sick she set out in search 
of some other shelter. 

But now all doors seemed shut against her. 
The mere announcement of her situation was 
sufficient to cause cold and averted looks, and 
in one or two instances she was repulsed with 
bitter and angry words and even threats of being 
given in charge of the police. At length, wearied 
out, sick and despairing, and with scarcely a hope 
of escape from the fate which seemed to beckon 
her onward to perdition, she turned her halting 
footsteps in the direction of the river, whose darkly 
rolling waves would afford her at least that which 
seemed denied her elsewhere — a shelter from the 
storm which already began to beat upon her, and 
an escape from the misery which alone seemed 
her portion. 

But relief was at hand. Passing on her way a 
comfortable looking cottage, whose every aspect 
indicated it as the abode of peace and plenty, she 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


179 


suddenly resolved to make one more effort to 
escape from the doom impending over her, and 
mounting the steps she rang the bell. The door 
was opened by a lady of benevolent aspect, from 
every feature of whose countenance beamed the 
holy light of contentment and goodness, such as 
can only be imparted by the gentle influence of 
the Son of God upon the human heart. 

The moment her eyes fell upon the wet and 
shivering figure before her, her heart told her that 
here was a case for the exercise of that benevo- 
lence and charity which had been the pole-star of 
her life, and without a word of inquiry as to who 
or what she was, she bid Mary enter. Conducting 
her to the sitting-roon, where blazed a comfortable 
fire of wood, she bade her be seated, and then 
waited for her guest to speak. For a short time 
Mary was silent; a choking sensation at her 
throat prevented her from speaking, then raising 
her eyes to the beaming face of her hostess, she 
said: 

“You see before you, madam, a homeless wan- 
derer, who in all this great city has not one single 
friend and knows not where to go for shelter, and 
who begs of you a stopping-place till morning.” 

“No one ever appeals in vain to me for shelter, 
especially on such a night as this,” replied the 
lady, kindly. “But your clothes are wet — you 
must allow me to remove these and bring you 
others, and then you must have a cup of tea. I 
know from your looks that you are weary, and a 


380 


CHRISTLIKE. 


€up of tea will refresh you. Jane,” to a domestic 
who was sewing in one corner of the room, “ will 
you go and make a strong cup of tea for the 
lady?” 

Such unexpected kindness from a total stranger 
quite overcame poor Mary. Bursting into tears, 
she said : 

“But, madam, you know not to whom you ex- 
tend so much of kindness.” 

“I know,” replied the woman, “that you are 
poor and destitute, homeless and hungry, and that 
the Master has commanded us to minister to the 
wants and necessities of such. And further than 
this I ask not.” 

“But,” said Mary, “you must know all, and 
when you have heard my story, turn me into the 
street if you will, as so many have done before 
you. I cannot be the recipient of such unmerited 
kindness without at least telling you upon whom 
it is bestowed.” 

“Well, well,” said the good lady, playfully and 
kindly, “ too much talking is not good for one as 
weary as you are. Wait until you have been 
refreshed with a cup of Janets tea, and then if you 
will you shall tell me your story,” and hastening 
to a closet in one corner of the room she brought 
dry clothing for which she obliged Mary, in spite 
of her remonstrances, to change her own wet and 
soiled garments. By the time her toilet was 
made, and she had returned to the sitting-room, 
Jane brought in a very comfortable lunch, to 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


181 


which she did ample justice, despite the emotion 
which filled her heart, while her kind hostess sat 
by and served her with as much apparent zest as 
though she had been her dearest and most inti- 
mate friend. This was Christlike. 

When her repast was concluded and Jane took 
away the tea things, Mary proceeded to tell her 
story in brief to her kind benefactress, not sparing 
herself or extenuating faults in the slightest de- 
gree. Her hostess listened in silence, only occa- 
sionally asking some explanation of matters 
which she did not fully comprehend. And when 
her sad, sad story was finished, and Mary had 
told of her almost despair, her meditated suicide 
which she was actually on the way to consum- 
mate when attracted by the bright light shining 
from her windows, she gently drew the weeping 
girl’s head upon her bosom, while she murmured: 

“Poor child, yours has been a sad lot in life. 
But I will aid you in your struggle with the world. 
You shall remain here at least until morning, and 
then we will see what can be done.” 

How grandly does the simple Christian benevo- 
lence of this woman contrast with the heartless 

conduct of Mrs. ! The latter was the slave 

of pride, avarice and fashion — the other the con- 
sistent follower of the Savior of mankind. Say, 
dear reader, which manifested the most sincere 
devotion to holiness and virtue — the one who 
thrust poor Mary out into the street with a Phar- 
isaical, “ Stand aside, I am more holy than thou,” 


182 


CHRISTLIKE. 


or the other who took her in and said, “ Come, I 
will assist yon to regain your lost footing in the 
world?’’ Which did most toward accomplishing 
her reformation ? And above all, which was most 
likely to be commended by the Father? 

Dear reader, the author was a witness to this, 
and was at the house when Mary was brought in 
and cared for, and has since kept track of her. It 
is no fiction. I hope every one that reads this 
story will be an instrument in the hand of God to 
save some fallen girls. 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


183 


CHAPTER XIII. 

When Mary awoke the next morning she could 
scarcely realize for a time where she was. The 
events of the preceding night seemed to her only 
like some horrible dream, and yet everything 
seemed so strange to her that she hardly knew 
what to think. But soon it all occurred clearly to 
her mind, and she wept tears of joy and thankful- 
ness to “ Him who watches the sparrows as they 
fall.” And then she fell into a sort of reverie 
from which she was soon aroused by a gentle tap 
at the door, and the next moment her kind hostess 
entered the room. 

Mrs. Weston (for that was her name) kindly in- 
quired how she had rested, and told her that 
breakfast would soon be ready — then left her to 
make her toilet, and returned to the kitchen to 
superintend in person the finishing touches of the 
morning meal. 

The family of this estimable lady consisted of 
herself, her husband, who was a thrifty retail mer- 
chant on Pearl street, two sons, both of whom 
were doing gallant service in defense of their 
country, and three girls, the eldest of whom was 
thirteen years of age. One, a son, was quietly 
sleeping in a shady nook of the old cemetery, 
whither his parents with bitter tears, but with 
hopeful confidence of being reunited with him at 


184 


CHRISTLIKE. 


the last day, had laid him four years before, 
Mary had seen none of the family the evening be- 
fore, the husband being absent on business, and 
the children in their beds when she came. And it 
was with no little trepidation that she descended 
to the dining-room to meet them for the first time. 
But Mr. Weston was in spirit the worthy counter- 
part of his noble wife, and he treated her with 
such unaffected kindness that she was soon quite 
at her ease ; and her heart, which but a few hours 
before was almost bursting with its load of an- 
guish, overflowed with thankfulness to the good 
Being who had guided her wandering footsteps to 
such a pleasant place. 

After breakfast she had a long conversation 
with Mrs. .Weston, the result of which was that 
she was engaged in her family in the same capac- 
ity she had occupied at Mrs. ’s, as a seam- 

stress and sort of governess for the children. Mrs, 
Weston had for some time been looking out for 
some one to fill this station, and Mary’s evident 
refinement and earnest desire to do some good in 
the world, convinced the good lady that her chil- 
dren would be safe in her charge. And to the 
credit of all parties be it said that during all the 
time she was an inmate of the family, Mrs. Wes- 
ton never had the least occasion to repent her 
action in this matter. 

Eighteen months of peace and comparative hap- 
piness now passed over the head of our storm- 
tossed heroine. In the calm retirement of Mrs. 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


185 


Weston’s home she found shelter from the bitter 
blasts which had so long assailed her, and but for 
the memory of the sorrowful past, she would have 
been perfectly happy. True, it was never alluded 
to in the most distant manner, but still the mem- 
ory of it rankled in her breast and caused her 
many a silent tear of anguish. 

Allusion has already been made to her rare 
beauty, and with the calmness of her present life 
her loveliness, which had been somewhat impaired 
by the sorrows she had endured, returned in all 
its beaming freshness. 

Retiring as was her disposition, Mary could not 
at all times avoid meeting company at Mrs. Wes- 
ton’s, for, though not in the upper ten of fashion, 
Mrs. Weston had many friends who were attracted 
to her by her sterling good sense and her well- 
known purity and kindness of heart. And with 
the society that frequented her house Mary’s in- 
telligence, vivacity and refinement soon made her 
quite a favorite. She had many invitations to go 
into society, but she invariably declined them, 
but with such kindness as, instead of offending, 
seemed but to endear her still more to those who 
were thus disappointed. 

Among those who most frequented Mrs. Wes- 
ton’s house was a young gentleman whom we will 

call Gus -. He was a grocer and produce 

dealer on Market street, and was well-known as a 
most promising young man, of a high order of 
business talent, and of uncompromising honesty. 


186 


CHRISTLIKE. 


That he was at times somewhat eccentric, and a 
little inclined to change his opinions in minor 
matters upon grounds which a person of cooler 
and less impulsive temperament would have 
deemed, perhaps, hardly sufficient, were not 
deemed sufficient to condemn him with those who 
knew his native goodness of heart, and the stead- 
fastness with which he had adhered to all the car- 
dinal principles of honesty and morality. 

Meeting Mary one evening, a few weeks after 
she had become a member of Mrs. Weston’s fam- 
ily, he was at once deeply impressed by her beau- 
ty, and upon a closer acquaintance, her intelli- 
gence and good sense completed the conquest 
which the charms of her person had commenced. 
From this time he was untiringly assiduous in his 
efforts to cultivate and improve the acquaintance 
which chance had thus begun, and though Mary 
was far from affording him any encouragement in 
his advances, he still persevered in his pursuit 
with an energy which knew no such word as fail- 
ure, and yet with a delicacy which she could not 
but appreciate and admire, and for which she 
was truly grateful to him. 

Some one has said that “ love is born of grati- 
tude,” and the constancy and earnestness with 
which “Grus” pursued his suit could not fail to make 
some impression upon the heart of Mary, and 
struggle against it as she might, all too soon came 
the secret consciousness that her regard for him 
was not merely that dictated by friendship, but 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


187 


that a warmer and tenderer emotion mingled with 
the sentiment with which she greeted him. Mrs. 
Weston, meantime, had learned to love Mary 
almost as her own daughter (as in one sense she 
might almost Ibe considered), and her high estima- 
tion of “ Gus ” led her to regard with the utmost 
complacency, and, indeed, with a good degree of 
secret satisfaction, the tenderness which she imag- 
ined was growing up between them. Not that she 
enacted in any sense the part of a match-maker 
between them ; her good sense and sterling worth 
would not permit this ; but feeling as she did the 
highest regard for both, believing fully and firmly 
in the sincerity of Mary’s repentance and reforma- 
tion; believing also that their characters were 
admirably adapted to add to each other’s happi- 
ness, she was well content to let events take their 
course, hoping and believing from what she daily 
witnessed, that the result would in time be all 
that she could wish. 

Mary, meantime, was undergoing a severe strug- 
gle between duty and inclination. On the one 
hand was the blackness of the horrid past, of 
which she was well aware that “ Gus ” was ig- 
norant, and of which she felt that duty required 
her to apprize him in some way, while on the 
other, in addition to the natural timidity with 
which she shrank from the dread revelation, was 
the fear that when her sad story was known to 
him it would result in driving him in disgust from 
her side forever — an event which could not fail to 


188 


CHRISTLIKE. 


be a still further blighting of her happiness, for, 
as already intimated, his gentle perseverance and 
apparent steadfastness of purpose had awakened 
the tenderer feelings of her heart, and taught her 
to love him. For a long time she thus hovered 
between inclination on the one side and what she 
felt to be duty to him on the other. No word of 
love had as yet passed his lips, but still his feel- 
ings had been manifested in various ways which 
could not be mistaken, and several times Mary 
had resolved to tell him all, but as often when 
the moment of revelation came, she shrank with 
shame from the painful exposure, and so matters 
went on. 

But a crisis was approaching which would ad- 
mit of no further postponement. One evening he 
called while Mrs. Weston was out, and was re- 
ceived by Mary alone in the family sitting-room. 
It was just at the twilight of a pleasant summer’s 
eve, when all nature is at peace, and when the 
spirit of mankind is insensibly mellowed and sub- 
dued into harmony with its surroundings. It is 
upon just such occasions that our tenderest emo- 
tions and feelings exert their most powerful influ- 
uence ; when stormy and turbulent passions are 
allayed by the heavenly quiet of the scene, and 
discord and contention have no abiding place in 
the human heart. What hour so meet as this for 
a declaration of love ? So “ Gus ” thought, and 
when at his entrance Mary arose to light the gas 
(she had been silently communing with her own 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


189 


thoughts as the shades of night slowly settled 
down around her) he stopped her by saying : 

“ Pray, Miss Bay, do not. Never mind the lights, 
but sit down and hear what I have to say.” 

Mary complied with his request, and without a 
word seated herself trembling upon the sofa, for 
her heart told her what was coming, and she knew 
that the exposition she so much desired and yet 
dreaded to make could no longer be deferred. 

Seating himself by her side, he poured forth his 
tale of love. In words made eloquent by depth 
and intensity of feeling he told her how he had 
loved her from the hour of his first introduction 
to her ; how each interview with her had but added 
to the intensity of the feeling which the first meet- 
ing had awakened in his bosom ; how fervent his 
love had become and how true it should prove, and 
wound up by asking her to become his wife. 

And how did poor Mary receive this impassion- 
ed harangue ? For a single instant the most fiery 
joy thrilled her heart — then the remembrance of 
the awful revelation to be made sent the blood 
curdling back to her heart, and burying her face 
in her hands, while the hot tears forced themselves 
through her fingers, she listened in silent agony 
to his story — that story so oft repeated, and yet 
ever new, and ever interesting alike to speaker 
and hearer. But when his tale was finished, and 
attempting to take her hand, he pressed her for an 
answer, she raised her tear-wet face to his and 
said : 


190 


CHKISTLIKE. 


“I cannot deceive yon. Yon know not wliat 
you ask. But listen to my story — a revelation of 
sorrow and sin and degradation, of which had you 
any conception, that to which I have just listened 
had been left unsaid.” 

And then she told him all without reserve or 
concealment. She made no effort to extenuate or 
conceal any fault upon her own part, but took 
upon herself the full measure of all the blame 
which rested upon her, and when she had finished 
her sad story, she said : 

‘‘ Now you have the history of my life — go and 
forget me.” 

She spoke this in a tone of such hopeless woe, 
and with such an expression of utter despair upon 
her countenance as to touch the very bottom of his 
heart, and passing his arm around her waist he 
said tenderly : 

“Say not so, Mary; bid me not go and forget 
you, for the last were an impossibility. What 
have we to do with the past? Let it be forever 
forgotten. True, it is sad enough, but your candor 
and frankness in communicating it to me but in- 
crease if possible my esteem and affection for 
you. Let us not look to the past — the present and 
future are all with which we have to do. Say, 
Mary, will you be my wife ? ” 

“But,” replied Mary, “have you considered 
well all the consequences of what you ask ? You 
have friends and relations who would, perhaps, 
and very justly so, consider themselves degraded 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


191 


to a certain extent by any relation you might 
assume to me.” 

‘‘ I have considered all I desire to,” he replied 
with some impetuosity. “ I repeat, we have noth- 
ing to do with the past — the future I am willing to 
trust with you, and with no one else — my friends 
will love, respect and esteem you, not only because 
you are my wife, but because of your own worth. 
Shall it be so ? ” 

Mary replied not in words — her heart was too 
full, but she dropped her head upon his shoulder 
and their lips met in the first warm kiss of love. 
He was answered. The poor, tired, stormed-tossed 
spirit had found a haven of rest and peace at last. 

When Mrs. Weston returned “ Gus ” took his 
leave, and she and Mary now were left alone, the 
children having already retired. The good lady 
saw from the flush which rested upon the cheek of 
her protege, and the unwonted sparkle of her eye, 
that something more than ordinarily exciting to 
her had taken place, and she was not at all sur- 
prised when Mary gave her an account of the scene 
which had been enacted in her absence, for her 
close observation had fully prepared her for it. 
And to say that she was pleased with the assur- 
ance that the hopes she had long indulged regard- 
ing the future of the unfortunate girl to whom she 
had been so true a friend were now about to be 
realized, would but faintly express her feelings 
upon the subject. As she expressed it to her hus- 
band, “everything had turned out just as she 


192 


CHRISTLIKE. 


wished, and she was sure they would be just as 
happy as they deserved to be, and she could not 
wish them anything better than that.” 

As for Mary, she was as happy in her newly 
formed relations as any one could be expected to 
be who, after a long course of unmitigated suffer- 
ing and sorrow, was at last freed from the burden 
which had so long weighed them down, and 
emerged into the pure sunlight of happiness and 
rest. The noble conduct of her betrothed in regard 
to her past history had touched her heart with a 
deeper feeling of devotion to him than she had be- 
fore known, and now she would have died ere she 
would have done an act or thought a thought which 
could possibly wound his noble nature. To her 
the future appeared clad in roseate colors, and she 
resolutely turned her back upon the bitter past as 
upon some frightful dream which could mar her 
happiness no more forever. Poor child ! she could 
not .foresee the sorrows which were still in 
store for her, and were to turn the now bright 
appearing future into days of sorrow and nights of 
weeping. 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


193 


CHAPTER XIY. 

But though “ Gus ” had been thus successfully' 
pressing his suit, the reader must not suppose that 
he was the only admirer whom the beauty and in- 
telligence of Mary had attracted to her side, and 
not a few of the young friends of Mrs. Weston had 
sought to ingratiate themselves in her good graces, 
but with quiet grace and dignity she repelled them 
all. There was one among them, however, who, 
inasmuch as he will be in some degree connected 
with Mary’s future, demands a* more particular 
notice. 

Francis Wills was a young physician who, after 
graduating at one of the best medical institutions 
of the country, had opened an office, and, ostensi- 
bly at least, gone into practice in the town of Ken- 
nettsville, in the State of Ohio. But, though well 
read and of good judgment and discretion, practice 
came but slowly to the young doctor, and being 
alone in the world, without means, friends or influ- 
ence, he was rapidly becoming disheartened and 
almost ready to abandon his profession in despair, 
when our mighty civil war broke out and at once 
absorbed every emotion of all ranks and classes 
of society. Intelligent, patriotic and unselfish, it 
was but natural that our young graduate should 
espouse with all the ardor of his nature the cause 

of true freedom, good government and law and 
13 


194 


CHRISTLIKE. 


order. And in one of the earliest three years 
regiments from the gallant State of Ohio, he 
enlisted as a private. In this capacity he served 
for some time, nntil the attention of his colonel 
was attracted by the skillful manner in which he 
dressed the wound a^nd staunched the otherwise 
speedily fatal flow of blood from the neck of a com- 
rade, shot down by his side in a brisk skirmish with 
the enemy. Upon inquiry that officer ascertained 
his status at home, and as the army was then suf- 
fering for want of sufficient medical officers, he 
procured his appointment as assistant surgeon, 
with the rank of first lieutenant. In due time he 
was assigned to the charge of one of the numer- 
ous hospitals in Cincinnati, and was occupying 
that position at the time of his introduction to 
Mary Bay. 

But a short time had elapsed after forming her 
acquaintance until the young surgeon made her 
an offer of his hand and heart ; but though he 
urged his suit with all the ardor and impetuosity 
of his warm nature, his proposals were firmly re- 
jected, but yet with such kindness as, instead of 
embittering him, to convert him into a devoted 
friend; and after his rejection he still continued 
to visit her, though well understanding that her 
determination was irrevocable and his suit hope- 
less, while with rare good sense, generosity and 
manliness, he never alluded to the subject in any 
manner whatever ; and when he learned that 
“ Gus ” had been more fortunate than himself, he 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


195 


was among the first to congratulate his rival upon 
success, and no one who knew his character for a 
moment doubted the sincerity and genuineness of 
his congratulations, however much he might have 
wished her choice had fallen upon himself 
instead of another. 

But in the mighty web of time figures and scenes 
are constantly shifting, and now was unrolling for 
our heroine a dark and gloomy picture — one which 
was for a time to change entirely the aspect of her 
life. Her betrothed, though accounted a careful 
and correct business man, suddenly failed'; his 
property, the reward of all his care and toil, was 
swept away in an hour as it were ; and whereas he 
had been accounted worth his thousands, he was 
at once found to be hopelessly bankrupt. The 
most inconsistent and contradictory rumors as to 
the cause of failure were at once put in circula- 
tion. By some it was attributed to the dishonesty 
of a defaulting book-keeper; others said it was 
owing to the capture and destruction by the rebels 
of a vessel, a large part of whose cargo was con- 
signed to him — while others attributed it to other 
causes. In one thing, however, all were agreed : 
that the wreck was complete, and that it was not 
owing to any fault of his. So convinced were his 
creditors of Ms good faith in the matter, that they 
offered him every possibility to resume business 
upon the most favorable terms ; but to this his 
proud spirit would not consent. No, he would give 
up everything to pay his debts ; would go to Idaho, 


196 


CHRISTLIKE. 


and amid its inexhaustible gold fields, would seek 
once more to regain the position in the commercial 
world which he had lost. It was a gigantic under- 
taking, but he was not the man to shrink from its 
fulfillment. 

The most painful feature of the programme was, 
that it involved his separation from Mary for a 
long time ; how long the great Disposer of all 
human events could alone foretell, even if it were 
permitted them ever to meet again. She was in an 
agony of tears at the thought of being separated 
from him under such dread uncertainties, and yet 
she entered fully into the noble spirit which 
prompted the dangerous journey, and she strove 
not to dissuade him from his purpose. 

At length his arrangements were fully com- 
pleted; every dollar of his property had been 
scrupulously applied to the payment of his debts, 
and with a light purse but strong arms and stout 
heart, he joined a small party of emigrants bound 
for the land of gold, fully determined amid the 
rock-ribbed fastnesses of its everlasting mountains 
to hew out a fortune for himself and the loved 
one he was leaving behind. The parting with 
his betrothed was a sad and sorrowful one. She 
clung to him and wept as though her heart would 
break, while he, strong man though he was, and 
‘‘ unused to the melting mood,” felt his own eyes 
grow moist and dim as he clasped her in his arms 
and imprinted upon her lips, perchance, the last 
kiss. 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


197 


Many were the vows of faith and constancy 
which in that last hour they exchanged ; numerous 
the promises to write to each other, at least as 
often as every week ; and when the time allowed 
him before the departure of the train which was 
to bear him from her side had elapsed, it was still 
just as hard to part as ever. But the imperious 
demands of time and fortune admit no delay, 
and straining her in one last convulsive grasp to his 
throbbing bosom, he hastened from the house, and 
in a moment was whirling away to the depot, while 
poor Mary sought her room and wept as though 
the last friend she had on earth was taken from 
her. 

And what of Francis Wills during this hour of 
sadness to the lovers ? It cannot be said that he 
rejoiced at the necessity which demanded their 
separation, and yet it cannot be denied that there 
sprang up in his heart a sort of thrill of hope that 
in some way his suit might be advanced by the 
absence of “ Gus.” He kept repeating to himself 
the hackneyed phrase that “ absence conquers 
love,” and patiently waited for this all-potent agent 
to produce some change in the heart of Mary, 
when he designed to once more renew his suit for 
ner hand. 

But time passed away and no change seemed to 
have come over the spirit of her dream. For the 
first few weeks after ‘‘ Gus’s ” departure, his let- 
ters continued to arrive with the utmost regu- 
larity, all breathing the same spirit of true devo- 


198 


CHRISTLIKE. 


tion and filled with bright hopes and anticipa- 
tions of the future ; sentiments which found a 
ready echo in her heart and in the responses which 
she, from time to time, dispatched to him. And 
still the patient, devoted surgeon waited, believing 
that the time would yet come when constancy such 
as his must meet with its just reward, and his 
high hopes be crowned with success. 

In time the letters from the wanderer grew to be 
less frequent, and were perceptibly shorter. This 
was doubtless owing to the lack of facilities for 
writing and mailing letters ; but the intense and 
earnest love of Mary demanded nothing short of 
the fullest return, and she refused to admit the 
mitigating circumstances. There is perhaps no 
single passion of the human heart so difficult to 
fully satisfy as earnest, all-absorbing love ; none 
which demands so much from its object, or for- 
gives so little of dereliction. This may seem 
questionable to my readers, but I believe a little 
refiection will convince the most skeptical of its 
truth. True and earnest love induces its possessor 
to forgive almost anything in its object, so long 
only as that which requires forgiveness indicates 
no want of love upon the part of the individual 
requiring to be forgiven. But let the conduct of 
that individual be of such a nature as to indicate 
that the deep, earnest love which has gone out to 
him has met with no return ; let his conduct in 
short be such as to excite the jealousy of that 
other, and then acts of themselves totally insignifi- 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


199 


cant are magnified into events of the mightiest 
import. It may be said that this is simply jeal- 
ousy and not love, and to this the obvious and in- 
disputable reply is, that jealousy in the sense in 
which it is here used, is but one of the natural off- 
shoots of deep, impassioned love. 

Time passed, but brought no change to the ap- 
parently forsaken Mary. The letters of her be- 
trothed still made their appearance less and less 
frequently, and finally ceased altogether. In vain 
she watched the arrival of each successive mail, 
and earnestly prayed for some communication, if 
only to tell her she was forgotten or altogether 
abandoned ; but still the silence remained all un- 
broken, and Mrs. Weston, who was in Mary’s con- 
fidence, was pained and shocked beyond measure, 
to mark the inroads which her fearful suspense 
was making upon her naturally delicate constitu- 
tion. She smiled but seldom ; her eyes were red 
and swollen as with constant weeping ; her face 
became haggard and her form thin and bent as if 
with the weight of years. In the few months since 
his departure an age seemed to have passed over 
her. At last Mrs. Weston determined to keep 
silent no longer upon the subject which she well 
knew was killing Mary, and she thus addressed 
her : 

“ Mary, my dear, I have observed your grief for 
some time, and know that it is killing you by 
inches. I know too, by my own experience, how 
much the genuine sympathy of one true friend 


200 


CHRISTLIKE. 


will do towards relieving the weight of such a bur- 
den as now oppresses your heart. That I am 
such a friend to you, I know you will do me the 
justice to believe, and I ask that you let me share 
your burden, and if possible relieve some portion 
of its crushing weight.’’ 

That you are my true friend, my more than 
mother,” replied the girl, bursting into tears, “ I 
know full well. Your treatment of me proves it 
by the most indubitable evidence, but my grief is 
not to be assuaged by the means you propose. It 
lies too deep for that.” 

“But tell me,” persisted Mrs. Weston, kindly, 
“ wherein lies the peculiarity of your sorrow. 
That it grows out of the apparent desertion and 
faithlessness of ‘ Gus,’ I am well aware, and yet, 
painful as it is to be thus deserted by one whom 
we have implicitly trusted, I cannot think that 
these peculiarities exist any where save in your 
own imagination. Tell me all, will you not, my 
dear child?” And as she spoke she passed her 
arm tenderly around the girl’s waist and drew her 
head upon her bosom. 

“It is not so much the probable desertion,” re- 
plied Mary, “ as the horrible uncertainty attend- 
ing the matter. That it is that is killing me. I 
know not whether he be living or dead, or if living, 
what can be the cause of his silence. That he has 
forgotten our plighted vows I feel fully assured, 
but have no idea of the cause of his faithlessness. 
Do you suppose,” she continued in a whisper, as 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


201 


if fearful of the sound of her own voice, “ that it 
can be anything in my past history which has 
caused the change in his feelings ?” 

“ No, I can hardly think so,” replied Mrs. Wes- 
ton. “ He knew it all before he went away, did he 
not?” 

Yes, I imparted all to him as fully as to you 
before our engagement was formed, and he de- 
clared himself as fully satisfied as did you, my 
kind benefactress ; and now I know not what to 
think of this apparent duplicity, and this uncer- 
tainty is the most painful of all.” 

“ But why do you think he has deserted you ? 
May you not be mistaken in this ?” 

“ I have tried to persuade myself that my sus- 
picions were groundless, until all hope has de- 
parted. For some time after he went away, I re- 
ceived letters every week, as you are aware, warm, 
loving and tender as was his language while here ; 
then a longer time would elapse between the arri- 
val of his missives, while they would be shorter, 
and a spirit of coolness more easily felt than de- 
scribed seemed to pervade them until at last they 
ceased altogether, and now it has been months — 
to me it seems ages — since I have heard a word 
from him. Oh, if I only knew he was dead I could 
endure it,” and the poor girl shuddered in her 
strong agony. 

Mrs. Weston knew not what to say. She fully 
appreciated the anguish which convulsed the 
frame of the fair girl beside her; she felt in her 


202 


CHRISTLIKE. 


inmost soul that he whom Mary had learned to 
love with all the intensity of her nature had 
proven false and was unworthy of that love, and 
she was too truthful to delude her with false 
hopes, or to endeavor to impart comfort and con- 
solation when she felt that none really existed. 
For a time she sat silent and perplexed, and then 
she said in a low tone : 

“ Can you not rise above the bitterness of this 
disappointment? Forget the false one, and be 
again your own true and noble self.” 

“It is easy to say forget, but it is a hard thing 
to do when one has loved as I love him,” replied 
Mary. “He has become a part of my very life 
and being ; an ingredient of my soul, and to bid 
me forget him is like bidding me to pluck away a 
part of my very self. It is in vain to ask it — I 
cannot do it.” 

“But it is the only way,” persisted her kind 
friend. “It is not womanly, or just to yourself or 
your sex thus to pine away for the sake of one 
who evidently cares nothing for you, and who has 
proven false to every vow ; be true to yourself, if 
he is not, and cast him out from your very 
thoughts.” 

Mary made no reply. She knew that what her 
friend said was the truth, and that it was due to 
herself to cast out the image of him who had 
proven himself so unworthy the love of a true and 
noble woman, and she inwardly resolved that she 
would tear his image from her heart, even though 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


203 


in the effort its every fibre should quiver and snap 
Avith the untold anguish^ and yet she clung to the 
hope that he might still be true, and that his 
silence would at the proper time be explained in 
such manner as to relieve him from all blame. 
But at the last came a letter from him which ban- 
ished all hope, a letter brief and cold, in which he 
advised her “ to forget him ; that it would be bet- 
ter for both to do so; that they would both be 
happier,” etc. 

Words can hardly depict the anguish of our 
heroine, as she read this cold and heartless epis- 
tle, and with it the assurance that for a second 
time the wealth of the affections of her heart had 
been squandered iipon an unworthy object. For 
a time she sat stunned and bewildered by the 
fatal discovery — fatal at once to all her love of 
him — of the falsity of him whom she had consid- 
ered the very embodiment of truth and nobleness. 
For a time her brain whirled, and it was only by 
the exercise of all the strength and force of char- 
acter she could summon that she kept herself from 
fainting. Then her womanly pride and fortitude 
came to her aid, and though fearful was the strug- 
gle, she conquered and arose in her might, deter- 
mined that from that hour he should be as nothing 
to her. Many and bitter were the tears she shed 
ere the sacrifice of her idol was fully completed, 
but at last she triumphed and came forth from the 
strife, somewhat scathed it is true, but with her 
spiritual strength renewed, and confirmed in her 
devotion to the right. 


204 


CHRISTLIKE. 


CHAPTER XV. 

Mary had conquered her love for ‘‘Gus,” but 
the struggle had left her but a shadow of her 
former self. Within the family circle of the Wes- 
tons she was measurably unchanged ; she still dis- 
played toward each member of the family the 
same degree of kindness and affection which she 
had ever manifested, and which had been called 
into being by the assistance they had rendered 
her, but to the world at large her whole demeanor 
was changed. She was no longer interested or 
attracted by the pleasures of society or the de- 
lights of social intercourse; she took the same 
part in such things that she had ever done, but it 
was without any heart ; she moved amongst her 
associates like an icicle, a being without a heart 
and without the least sympathy with anything 
around her, and upon her countenance was ever 
present an expression of weariness which told of 
the desolation within. She had answered in fit- 
ting terms the cold and cruel letter in which her 
lover had announced his change of purpose, and 
with the mailing of that letter she felt that she 
had severed every tie which bound her to happi- 
ness in the past. 

And when, a short time after this event. Dr. 
Wills again made her an offer of his hand and 
heart, he met with no refusal. She professed no 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


205 


love for him, or indulged in no extraordinary dis- 
play of emotion or sentiment — cold and impassive 
as a statue, she listened to the repetition of his 
tale of love, and at its close gave him a hand 
which chilled him with its icy, frigid coldness, 
and took upon herself the vows which were to 
make her his forever. And he, feeling keenly the 
assurance that in her heart abode no love for him, 
accepted the sacrifice, fondly trusting to his own 
great love for her, and to the effect of the most 
unwearied kindness to awaken within her breast 
that sentiment without which no woman should 
ever give her hand in marriage. 

Upon one point, however, she was immovable, 
and that was as to a postponement of the mar- 
riage for a time. Wills, now that he had obtained 
the promise for which he had so long sued in vain, 
was exceedingly anxious that the wedding should 
take place at once, and used all the powers of his 
persuasive eloquence to win her consent, but in 
vain. Two months was the shortest period of pro- 
bation to which she would consent, and with this 
he was forced to be satisfied. 

Mary had a secret motive for insisting upon this 
delay. Notwithstanding the fact that she had, as 
she fancied, driven the image of ‘‘ Gus ” entirely 
from her heart, there still lingered within her 
breast a latent hope that when he should receive 
and read her farewell letter, the old love for her 
would be awakened in his heart and that their 
former relations might be restored. And this it 


206 


CHRISTLIKE. 


was, although she was lierself unaware of the fact 
perhaps, which induced her to claim the delay. 
Two months would afford ample time for her letter 
to reach him and be answered, and if at the end 
of that time she did not hear from him, the last 
lingering ray of hope would expire, and then she 
would care very little what became of her. 

What a strange medley of contradiction is the 
human heart ! Had any one told Mary that she 
still loved this man, the one who had so cruelly 
betrayed her trust, she would have repelled the 
assertion with indignant scorn, and would have 
actually thought her indignant denial was true, 
and yet she was steadfastly insisting upon post- 
poning the consummation of her marriage contract 
solely in obedience to the dictates of that love 
which she imagined entirely eradicated; and in 
this she was only obeying the common impulses 
of our nature. Who is there that, having wit- 
nessed the demolition and disappointment of some 
long-cherished hope, has not said, time and again, 
“I don’t care anything about it,” while the fre- 
quent repetition of this hackneyed phrase , but 
affords the strongest possible evidence of its 
falsity, and that the speaker does really care ? 

But time passed, and still no word came to 
assure her that he desired to recall those unkind 
words, and at last arrived the day fixed for the 
wedding, and with heavy heart and bloodless, 
quivering lips, whose pallor vied with the hue of 
the bridal veil she wore, and with a hand whose 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


207 


deathly coldness thrilled through the frame of the 
bridegroom as it rested on his arm, she stood up 
before the man of God and spoke the vows which 
bound her to Francis Wills so long as they both 
should live, while deep within her inmost heart 
she registered a solemn promise that those faintly 
spoken vows should be redeemed so far as in her 
lay. And thus the breach between herself and 
“Gus” was completed and rendered impassable. 

It had been arranged that they should board, 
for some time at least, at Mrs. Weston’s, and 
thither they went immediately upon leaving the 
church. That lady had invited a few of the most 
intimate friends of the family to meet and spend 
the evening with them, and in this quiet and unos- 
tentatious manner Mary buried the last of the 
hopes by which, during the last year, she had 
been cheered and gladdened while contemplating 
her somewhat eventful career. 

But a short time elapsed after her marriage 
until Mary was somewhat surprised by her hus- 
band saying to her one evening : 

‘‘I am sorry to interfere with the pleasure you 
seem to enjoy with these excellent friends, but 
fear I shall be compelled to do so.” 

“What do you mean?” she asked, for the idea 
of leaving the home which had so long sheltered 
her was anything but pleasant. 

“ Simply this : To-day I received an order from 
the surgeon general of the army, directing us to 
report immediately for duty at Indianapolis,” he 


■208 


CHRISTLIKE. 


replied. “ I am making an effort to have the order 
rescinded and some one else detailed in my place, 
but really entertain very little hope of success.” 

“ If it must be, it must,” said Mary, quietly. I 
shall very much regret leaving here and going 
among strangers, but wherever you are ordered, 
there is my place. So if we have to go, let us 
make the best of it.” 

“Thank you for the spirit you manifest,” he 
replied. “I am free to confess that I was very 
much opposed to going, and that my greatest ob- 
jection was that it would be unpleasant for you.” 

“ Of course I would much rather stay here,” 
replied Mary, “ but if we cannot, you shall never 
hear one word of complaint from me.” 

The next morning at breakfast the tidings were 
communicated to the family, and produced no lit- 
tle consternation, especially among the younger 
members. Mary had been so long their guardian 
and instructor that they had come to look upon 
her as really belonging to them, and with one 
accord they entered their protest against her being 
taken away. 

Protest and remonstrance, however, generally 
avail nothing in conflict with “ military necessity,” 
and so it was in the present instance. lu due 
time the communication which Wills had for- 
warded to headquarters was returned, “through 
the regular channels,” endorsed, “The request 
contained in this paper cannot be granted, owing 
to the exigences of the service. Assistant Surgeon 


SAVE THE’ FALLEN. 


209 


Wills will proceed without delay to Indianapolis 

and report for duty to Surgeon , in charge. 

By order,” etc. 

Of course further delay was out of the question, 
and the next day after the receipt of this commu- 
nication, Dr. Wills proceeded to Indianapolis, 
Mary remaining at Mrs. Weston’s until he could 
make arrangements for a suitable boarding-place 
for her, when she was to come on and join him. 
It was nearly a week before he succeeded in mak- 
ing arrangements to suit him, his time being so 
constantly occupied with assuming the duties of 
his new position and getting accustomed to the 
routine of business. 

But when he had been absent about a week the 
mail brought her a letter informing her that he 
had secured good board and comfortable rooms at 
the house of J. P. Aston, and asking her to come 
on at once, as he was very lonely without her. 
The letter was full of such expressions of tender 
and devoted affection as brought tears to the eyes 
of Mary, as she reflected how poor was the return 
she could make for the love which he showered in 
such profusion upon her. She could be to him a 
true and faithful wife, and God helping her, this 
she would be. The next day she went to Indian- 
apolis and was met at the depot by her husband, 
who took her at once to Mr. Aston’s and formally 
presented her to the family. 

She found that every arrangement had been 

made for the promotion of her comfort, of which 
14 


210 


CHRISTLIKE. 


circumstances would possibly admit. Her rooms 
were the best in the house, and were furnished in 
the most comfortable and even elegant style, while 
her table was covered with useful and entertain- 
ing books, music, and the like, while in one corner 
stood a new and splendid guitar to replace the in- 
ferior one which had been her companion for so 
many years. 

Again she was moved to tears of gratitude at 
these evidences of affectionate concern. 

The young husband stood silent while she ex- 
amined the room, and with pride and pleasure 
beheld the swelling emotion which told how fully 
she appreciated his efforts to promote her comfort 
and happiness. At last he spoke : 

“ How do you like your new home ? ” 

“ I cannot tell how much I thank you for your 
thoughtful kindness,” she replied, with deep and 
earnest emotion. “Everything is just as I would 
have it — just what I might have expected from 
you, and that is the very highest commendation I 
can bestow.” 

“Then my wife is pleased,” he said, "coming 
close up to her and passing his arm around her 
waist. 

“Yes, Francis, I am pleased,” she returned, 
“ and cannot find a stronger word to express my 
satisfaction.” 

The young husband was gratified with her com- 
mendation. There was gratification, obedience, 
and duty there. But he wanted more words of 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


211 


praise for his work, and with the great hunger 
which consumed his soul he half turned away to 
hide the agony which he felt was showing itself in 
every lineament of his countenance. “ Never 
mind,” he said to himself, “it will come in time. 
It will be impossible for her always to hold out 
against the treatment she shall receive at my 
hands,” and with this noble resolve he turned 
again to his bride. 

Mary marked his emotion and correctly defined 
its cause. She wished she could love him as she 
knew he deserved to be loved. 

In this home they found all the peace and hap- 
piness which might be expected to fiow from the 
most devoted love, but it was to last but a short 
season. The dark angel, sworn foe of the human 
race, was already pluming his way to bear Fran- 
cis Wills over the gloomy river into the dark and 
doubtful regions of the future, thus leaving Mary 
once more alone and friendless, with no reliance 
for succor save upon the outstretched arm of Him 
who has said, “ Come unto me, all ye that labor 
and are heavily laden, and I will give you rest.” 

They had been inmates of Mr. Aston’s house but 
a few weeks when the doctor came home one even- 
ing with a flushed face and trembling limbs, which 
told all too plainly of the fatal fever which had 
seized upon his frame, already weakened and re- 
duced by the incessant toil which his position 
required at his hands. He retired to rest after 
taking some simple remedies, but long before the 


212 


CHRISTLIKE. 


next morning, instead of being, as he had lightly 
expressed it, “well enough,” he was raving with 
delirium, as his vitals were gradually consumed 
by the fell disease which had fastened upon them. 

Mary now had abundant opportunity for the 
display of her idea of a wife’s duty, and never did 
the most devoted and loving spouse more faith- 
fully watch over the loved one, than did she over 
her husband during the fearful days and nights of 
suffering which followed. It mattered not at what 
hour of the day or night he pronounced her name 
or called for anything — in an instant she was at 
his side, and during all the time of his illness no 
hand save hers administered to him either medi- 
cine or refreshment. She slept at times, it is true, 
but always in a chair by his bedside, and the least 
exclamation on his part was always sufficient to 
call her to him with all her faculties about her, 
ready to do anything to relieve his distress or 
soothe his delirium. 

But neither her devoted care nor the skill and 
ability of the surgeon who attended him could 
avail to stay the onward march of the destroyer. 
The fiat had gone forth from the Omnipotent ; his 
name was already inscribed upon the roll of 
Death’s victims, and like a hungry wolf the grim 
tyrant was already clamoring for his prey. 

On the tenth night of his illness, Mary, worn 
out by the constant toil demanded of her by her 
self-imposed task, was dozing in her chair by his 
bedside. He had been unusually quiet for some 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


213 


time, but suddenly spoke in tones whose faintness 
would have rendered them inaudible to any one 
whose watchfulness was less acute than hers. 

“ Mary,” said he, and in an instant she was at 
his side, “ I have been ill a long time, have I not, 
and been a great deal of trouble, I fear.” 

“ Yes, Francis,” said she, taking his hand, so 
cold that she shuddered at the contact, “you have 
been very sick, but thank Heaven you are better 
now.” 

“ Not so ; I am not better, but soon shall be,” 
replied the dying man. “ Mary, I am dying. Al- 
ready I feel his cold fingers clasping my vitals. I 
shall not live to behold the dawning of another 
day.” 

“ Oh ! Francis, say not so. You must live and 
recover your health,” replied his wife with emo- 
tion. 

It is vain to attempt to deceive ourselves,” said 
he. “I am passing away. My time is come, and 
what can avail to stay his hand ? Nay,” said he, 
detaining her as she made a motion as if to sum- 
mon some one of the attendants from the adjoin- 
ing room, “ do not leave me, or call any one else. 
I would be alone with you.” 

He paused a moment as if to recover his wasted 
strength, and then continued : 

“ But for the thought that I must leave you alone 
and unprotected, I should die contented and happy. 
And there is another thing,” he continued, hesi- 


214 


CHRISTLIKE. 


tatingly, as if uncertain whether to free his mind 
or not. 

‘‘What is it, my husband? speak freely,” she 
said, weeping. 

“I wanted to live to teach you to love me. Oh ! 
Mary,” he continued, with sudden energy, “you 
never can and never will know how I have loved 
you and how I longed to have my love returned. 
I knew you did not love me, but I married you, 
fondly hoping that I might one day win your affec- 
tion. And could I but have heard from your 
lips — not that I have a word of complaint to make ; 
you have been to me all that a wife could be — but 
could I have heard from your lips one single word 
of love, I could have died happy.” 

“ Then listen,” said the weeping wife, her heart 
deeply touched by his emotion, “ I have learned 
your lesson. I do love you in sincerity and truth,” 
and as she spoke she clasped him in her arms and 
pressed kisses without number upon his clammy 
lips. 

“What do you say?” said he, entwining his 
arms about her form, “ let me hear those blessed 
words again. They are sweeter than heavenly 
music to my ears.” 

“I love you sincerely and truly,” she repeated, 
again covering his pallid lips and brow with her 
warm kisses. 

“Oh! my Grod, I thank thee. I can now die 
happy,” he exclaimed in tones of triumph, and in 
a moment more his spirit had passed to the bosom 
of his Father. 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


215 


CHAPTER XYI. 

Mary mourned for her husband with sincere 
sorrow, whom she had loved as a wife should love 
her husband, one who had been a true friend to 
her, and who had done all that lay within his 
power to lighten the heavy burden of sorrow which 
had been laid upon her — a burden whose grievous 
weight is seldom borne by one so young as she 
still was ; and the tears which she shed over his 
grave were but the justly merited tribute to the 
goodness and kindness with which he had treated 
her. 

The funeral was over and she was again alone 
in the world. She would have returned to Mrs. 
Weston’s, but that lady, too, had fallen a victim 
to disease and death ; her family was broken up 
and scattered, and there was no longer a home for 
her there. With what fearful rapidity had events 
of the last importance to her transpired within the 
few weeks since her marriage. 

But something she must do. She could not live 
in idleness, but just what to do she did not know. 
She did not feel the least inclination to return to 
the life of a seamstress or a teacher, and yet for 
what else was she fitted ? 

After much anxious thought, she decided to 
learn the art of photography, and after several un- 
successful attempts she succeeded in procuring 


216 


CHRISTLIKE. 


employment in the gallery of one of the first 
artists in the city. Her salary for the first year 
was but barely sufficient to support her, but her 
husband left her in possession of a small sum of 
money, and with this, in addition to what she 
would receive for her services in the gallery, she 
felt sure she would get along very comfortably. 
As the reader is already aware, she possessed tho 
intelligence and correct taste which alone could 
insure success in her chosen association, and she 
had no doubt of her ability, with the experience of 
a year, to command wages which would render her 
independent. 

We said she was alone in the world, but this 
statement must not be accepted without some 
qualification. True, she had no one to whom she 
could turn for any assistance and feel that she had 
claims which would prevent her suit from being 
rejected, but still was not without an intimate 
friend and associate in the person of the daughter 
of Mr. Aston, who was just about her own age. 
And inasmuch as she will be in the future some- 
what connected with our tale, we beg the indul- 
gence of the reader while we briefly recount her 
history as related by herself to Mary. 

Eva Earl was Mr. Aston’s only daughter, and 
had been left an orphan at the age of eleven years 
by the death of her mother. This calamity occur- 
ring just at the time she most needed judicious and 
watchful care and training, would have proved 
most disastrous to any one in whose mind the fun- 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


217 


damental principles of right and wrong had been 
less firmly established than in hers, even at that 
early age, for Mr. Aston’s time was almost totally 
occupied by the heavy business in which he was 
engaged, and from the time of his wife’s death the 
care and education of his children were of neces- 
sity confided almost entirely to the hireling hands 
of those who really felt no interest in their charge, 
and whose principal aim was to get off just as 
cheaply as possible from the demands of duty. 
But Eva’s mother had been a woman of rare good 
sense, intelligence and discretion, and the pains 
she had taken in the formation of her daughter’s 
mind had already better fitted her to act the part 
of a true woman than many persons of twice her 
years. 

And never was there greater need of such care- 
ful training, for upon, the youthful shoulders of 
Eva Aston was thrown the burden of the principal 
care of two brothers, aged respectively nine and 
seven years. And cheerfully, and with the most 
wonderful discretion in one so young, was the bur- 
den sustained. True, she was not the head of the 
household. Mr. Aston had a housekeeper, but she 
was one of those peculiar creatures who, without a 
drop of the milk of human kindness in their com- 
position, are unable to enter into or comprehend 
the feelings, wishes, hopes and fears of childhood, 
and who feel that their duty to children is fully 
discharged when they are provided with something 
to eat, drink and wear, never once reflecting that 


218 


CHRISTLIKE. 


other matters of far greater importance than these, 
essential as they are, demand attention in order 
to fit the child to act properly its part upon the 
stage of existence. And with these views of her 
duty to the little ones ostensibly in her charge, 
and a naturally hard and imperious disposition, it 
is not to be wondered at that so far as she con- 
trolled them their little joys should be few, while 
their spirits were chilled by contact with her un- 
feeling nature. 

And it was to Eva alone that Sidney and Willie 
(for those were the names of her brothers) could 
look for sympathy, for instruction, or even for con- 
solation under the too frequent injustice and 
oppression of the housekeeper. And nobly did 
she perform the duty thus thrust upon her. Under 
her care and tuition they became boys, suclt as 
any father might be proud to call his own ; intelli- 
gent almost beyond their years, studious, and with 
the most correct principles and habits fully im- 
pressed upon their minds. Many a mother who 
prides herself upon her government of her children 
would take lessons with profit from this child of 
but eleven years of age. 

Thus matters went on for three years, and Eva 
had attained the age of fourteen. An event which 
transpired at this time, but which it is not neces- 
sary to relate here, opened Mr. Aston’s eyes to the 
true state of affairs, and the result was the dis- 
charge of the unfaithful housekeeper, and the for- 
mal installation of Eva in the position she had 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


219 


long practically filled, that of head of the family. 
She was not, of course, expected to do the work of 
the household ; that was far beyond her strength 
and was performed by hired servants, but she be- 
came the absolute mistress and overseer. 

But this elevation to place and power did not 
afiect the well poised mind of the young house- 
keeper. She remained the same kind, judicious 
and discreet ruler she had been before, and con- 
trolled her dominion entirely by the force of love 
instead of the arbitrary rod of despotic power. 
And under her administration the condition of the 
household, and especially of the two boys, was 
soon very materially improved. It was no small 
task for a girl of fourteen thus to become the head 
of a family, and her feelings and resources were 
often taxed to their utmost limit to properly dis- 
charge the duties of her trying and responsible 
position. 

But a still heavier task was awaiting her. Her 
brother Willie, her pet and favorite, was stricken 
down with fever. He was a child of very large 
brain, and of fine, nervous temperament, and to his 
brain the fever was attracted. For days she 
watched beside him almost constantly, doing all 
that the most devoted love, directed by the skill 
of an experienced nurse, could suggest to calm his 
delirium and assuage the pains which racked his 
frame — for he would scarcely permit any one but 
her to do anything for him — but all was in vain. 
In vain she invoked Him in whose hands are the 


220 


CHRISTLIKE. 


issues of life and death to spare her brother to 
her — in a few days, but little more than a week 
from the time he was first attacked, the angels 
bore him on bright wings to another and happier 
world. Eva mourned her brother with sincere 
affection, and then all the love which had been the 
portion of the two brothers seemed concentrated 
upon Sidney. 

When he reached the age of sixteen he was sent 
away to college, but not until he had seen his sis- 
ter given away in marriage. 

Some time before this Eva had formed the 
acquaintance of a young lawyer by the name of 
Edward Earl. He was a young man of showy ex- 
terior and of undoubted talent, and had already 
attained a very flattering position in the practice 
of his profession. He had been introduced to Eva 
at a social party given by one of her friends, and 
they had seemed from the first to be mutually 
attracted to each other by the grace and intelli- 
gence which each undoubtedly possessed. He had 
followed up this first acquaintance by an early 
call in which first impression were but confirmed, 
and in a short time she came to expect and watch 
for his coming with the ill-concealed impatience 
with which a maiden is wont to anticipate the 
visit of her favored lover. 

But though Eva was so much fascinated by the 
young and interesting attorney, Mr. Aston viewed 
the growing intimacy between them with anything 
but pleasurable emotions. He had no well- 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


221 


founded or tangible objection to Mr. Earl — noth- 
ing had ever been urged against his character in 
the community in which he lived — and yet Mr. 
Aston fancied that at times he detected in his con- 
versation the faintest possible indication of a lax- 
ity of principle which made him fearful of trusting 
the happiness of his child in his care, and caused 
him to view with some alarm the influence he was 
gaining over her mind. But the closest watching 
failed, as before stated, to discover any ground 
upon which to predicate any charges against him, 
and when, after a courtship of some months, the 
lovers went hand in hand to Mr. Aston to ask his 
blessing upon their union, he, feeling that his 
prejudices against Mr. Earl were perhaps un- 
founded, having the most unlimited confldence in 
his daughter’s judgment, and considering that her 
happiness was at stake, yielded a reluctant con- 
sent to their marriage, only stipulating that the 
ceremony should be deferred until she had passed 
her eighteenth birthday. To this the ardent lover 
was obliged, though unwillingly, to accede, and 
when the day arrived, the wedding was celebrated 
according to the forms of the Christian Church, in 
the presence of a few of the most intimate friends 
of both parties, soon after which they went to 
housekeeping in a pleasant little cottage on Illi- 
nois street. 

Mr. Aston had, meantime, employed a highly- 
respectable widow lady, by the name of Mrs. 
Logan, as a housekeeper, and but barely two 


222 


CHRISTLIKE. 


months had elapsed from the time of Eva’s mar- 
riage until Mrs. Logan became the wife of Mr. 
Aston — a marriage which, to my certain knowl- 
edge, neither of them ever for one single moment 
regretted. Their lives since the union of their for- 
tunes and their interests have been one constant 
scene of peace and happiness. 

Poor Eva, however, was less fortunate in her 
selection of a companion for life than was her 
father. Scarcely had the honeymoon of her 
wedded life waxed and waned until she found that 
he whom she had made her idol, and whom her 
fond heart had pictured as a model of human ex- 
cellence, was totally unworthy of the great love she 
had bestowed upon him. Instead of his being the 
man of high-toned principle and moral rectitude 
and unselfish nobleness of soul which her fancy 
had painted him, she found that she had married 
a soulless and unprincipled libertine ; a man actu- 
ated by none but the most selfish motives, whose 
only care was the gratification of his own desires, 
no matter at what expense of sorrow or suffering 
to any one else. He became a drunkard. 

How did the heart of the loving wife sink within 
her as she thus beheld the veil rudely torn from 
the face of her idol, and saw the hideous deformity 
of character which the mask had concealed only 
so long as was necessary to accomplish his pur- 
pose ! How she wished, but in vain, that she had 
heeded the warnings and remonstrances of her 
father! But it was now too late, and with the 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


223 


firmness of a proud woman she looked the evil in 
the face, and resolved to meet her fate without 
fiinching and without complaining. Oh ! no ; the 
world, and least of all her father, should never 
know how much she suffered and how deeply she 
regretted her ill-advised marriage. But there were 
times when, in the solitude of her chamber, at the 
lonely hour of midnight, while her husband per- 
chance was engaged in some wild debauch or 
bacchanalian revel, it seemed to her that her sor- 
rows were more than she could endure, and but for 
her fear of offending Him who gave her being, and 
who has forbidden us to lay down our lives save 
according to His will, she would have prayed for 
rest — the calm rest of the grave. 

Still she went on hoping against hope, and when 
she felt in her inmost soul the joy of a new life 
springing into existence, she fondly believed that 
the coming stranger would prove the messenger 
sent from on high to reclaim him from the error of 
his ways. But all too soon this last hope was 
destined to be disappointed, as so many had been 
before. He daily grew more and more cold, neg- 
lectful and distant, and finally, without a word of 
explanation, left his home, merely telling her he 
was going away on business, and for the long 
space of four weary months — months of pain and 
anguish insupportable — she neither saw nor heard 
anything of him. 

When he at last returned, she timidly, but with 
all the pride of a young mother in her first-born. 


.224 


CHRISTLIKE. 


brought forward a sweet little boy of three months 
and laid it in his arms, simply saying, “He is 
ours, and his name is Edward,” and stepped back 
to watch the effect upon him of this simple appeal. 
But, oh! how cruelly were the hopes which her 
fond fancy had conjured up dashed to the ground ! 
A moment he gazed coldly upon the little dimpled 
face upturned to his, and then merely saying, “A 
very pretty baby — now take him away, for I never 
did love children,” he handed him back without 
even so much as a kiss, or the most distant mani- 
festation of parental affection. Ev^a’s beautiful 
eyes filled with tears as she took the babe and 
turned away, and from that moment all hope of 
the reformation of her husband died out within 
her bosom. 

About a week he remained at home, and then 
went away much in the same manner as before, 
and from that time to the present she had never 
heard of him. For some time, however, she con- 
tinued to occupy the house in which he had left 
her, and by sewing and such other work as she 
could get to do, endeavored to support herself and 
her infant child. 

Who can tell the wretchedness that poor, miser- 
able, deserted creature endured for the next few 
months? What language can depict the misery 
which falls to the lot of a woman, deserted as she 
was by him who had sworn to love, honor and pro- 
tect her ? It is not alone the physical suffering — 
the actual hunger and cold; the constant, unre- 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


225 


mitting toil, the head throbbing as though it 
would burst; the wearied, aching limbs, whose 
every twinge demands in thunder tones the rest 
which stern necessity forbids ; the eyes heavy with 
loss of sleep, and swollen and inflamed with con- 
stant weeping; it is not these alone, terrible 
though they are, which make up the burden of 
her wretchedness. Oh ! no, there is more reflned 
and keener torture than any or all of these. It is 
when the world has become stilled around her, 
and when alone with her loneliness she pursues 
her ill-requited toil as the hands of her clock 
point to the midnight hour; when memory sets 
before her the recollection of anticipated joys and 
hopes forever blighted; when the dread uncer- 
tainty surrounding the future, whose dim and 
misty outlines seem full of gloomy portent ; when 
imagination conjures up all the horrid images 
which her loneliness and the weird stillness around 
her can suggest, then it is that her brain reels 
with the agony and intensity of its suffering, and 
the most exquisite torture of her situation is forced 
upon her. 

To Eva’s nature, delicate by birth and reflned 
by education, the misery of such a life was al- 
most insupportable, and to that misery was super- 
added the self-imposed burden of concealment. 
For though long since convinced that she was for- 
ever abandoned by him to whom she had intrust- 
ed her all, even her very life, her pride would not 

permit her to reveal her misery to her father and 
15 


226 


CHRISTLIKE. 


ask bis aid in escaping from it. Besides, there 
was the ever present, lingering, illusive hope that 
her husband would one day return, and then, not 
for worlds would she have had her father know 
what she had endured. True, she could not con- 
ceal from him the fact of her husband’s absence, 
but she was always excused it on the plea of busi- 
ness, and still struggled on, vainly hoping against 
hope, that something would occur to afford her 
relief. 

But the time was coming when concealment was 
no longer possible. Her constant, unremitting toil 
and loss of rest told fearfully upon her, while the 
want of sufficient and nourishing food completed 
her prostration, and she was compelled to abstain 
entirely from work. Her father visiting her one 
day, entered the house without knocking as was 
his wont, and made his way without warning to 
her little sitting-room. She was lying upon a 
lounge, from which she attempted to rise as he en- 
tered the room, but fell back from mere weakness 
and exhaustion. Drawing a chair to her side, he 
folded her in his arms, and said : 

“ My dear daughter, what does this all mean ? 
Are you sick?” 

The poor girl was overcome by weakness, and 
the pent-up emotions of her heart poured out in a 
violent flood of tears. Mr. Aston made no effort 
to check her tears, for he had long suspected that 
she was concealing something from him, and now 
that the fountains of her heart were broken up, he 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


227 


felt sure that everything would he fully explained 
and he could afford to wait patiently. And he 
had not long to wait. Soon the violence of her 
emotion exhausted itself, and then, with her face 
hidden on his bosom, she replied in a low voice : 

“ Yes, father, I am sick in body and mind.” 

“ Where is Edward ?” he demanded. 

‘‘ I know not. I have not heard from him for 
months, not once since he went away,” she re- 
plied, while her tears flowed afresh. 

“ What ! not heard from him since he went away, 
so many months ago !” exclaimed her father in 
unfeigned astonishment, for he had never once 
suspected that the evil which he was convinced 
existed in the family was as great as her present 
revelation seemed to indicate. 

“ Yo, dear father, I have not.” 

“ But have you no idea where he is ?” 

“ Yot the least. When he went away he did 
not say where he was going, or how long he would 
be absent. He merely said business called him 
away, and I feared to ask any explanations,” she 
said timidly, and with a heavy sigh. 

“ You feared to ask him any explanations ! 
What do you mean by that ? Had he abused you 
until you were afraid to ask him even so simple a 
question as where he was going ?” he demanded in 
tones whose ringing sound indicated the choler ris- 
ing within. 

“ Yo, father, I did not mean exactly that,” she 
replied deprecatingly, for she dreaded her father’s 


228 


CHRISTLIKE. 


wrath being excited against her worthless and un- 
principled husband, “ but he was always so re- 
served about his business.” 

“ So reserved about his business that his wife 
dare not even ask where he is going, or how long 
he will be away. And I suppose it is the same re- 
serve which keeps him from writing to you or do- 
ing anything for you for months, while you are 
here starving to death,” he said, sarcastically. 
“ Come, Eva, that will not do.” 

Well, I meant to say that he was so cold and 
distant during the time he was at home that I did 
not feel free to say anything to him about such 
matters,” said she in a low voice, “ he was drink- 
ing so much.” 

“ Yes,” said he, in a voice whose vehemence be- 
trayed the anger which burned in his bosom, ‘‘ I 
understand it all, now. The villain, after winning 
you away from happiness and home, has basely 
deserted you, most likely for some new attraction. 
And you have kept it all to yourself. Why have 
you not told me this before ?” he demanded almost 
fiercely. 

Eva was frightened at his violence. Her father 
was habitually a man of calm and unmoved ex- 
terior, and she did not remember ever to have seen 
him so much excited before. And for a moment 
she made no reply, but when he again demanded 
to know why she had not told him this before, she 
found strength and courage to reply : 

“ Because I thought he would be back, and I 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


229 


still cannot believe that he intended to abandon 
me her woman’s heart clinging with true femi- 
nine devotion to the object around which the ten- 
drils of its affection had been entwined, even 
though convinced, as she was, of the utter nnwor- 
thiness of that object. 

“ Intend to abandon you ! of course he did. 
You will never see him again in this world,” re- 
plied the father. “ But he shall not escape the 
just punishment of his villainy. I will follow him 
to the ends of the earth to mete out to him the 
chastisement he deserves.” 

“ Oh ! no, dear father,” said Eva, earnestly ; 
“ although he has wronged me, I forgive him, and 
you must do the same. It would kill me to know 
of your harming one hair of his head. Yo matter 
what evil he has done to me, he is the father of 
my boy, and for his sake I forgive all. Oh ! 
promise me,” she continued, imploringly, “ that 
you will take no steps to inflict vengeance upon 
him. Promise for my sake and that of my little 
boy, who is at least innocent of any wrong.” 

“But the scoundrel deserves punishment, and 
he ought to receive it,” said the father, hesitating- 

ly- 

“That may be,” replied Eva, “but surely, if I 
can forgive him, you ought. His crime was 
against me, and if I choose to forget the wrong, 
why should you not ? Promise me, my dear fath- 
er, that you will make no effort to avenge what 
you may suppose to be my wrongs. Promise me, 


230 


CHRISTLIKE. 


will you not?” and she looked up in his face with 
such a piteous, pleading expression that he was 
no longer able to resist. 

The spectacle of this woman, who had endured 
some of the most cruel wrongs which man is capa- 
ble of inflicting or woman of suffering, thus nobly 
forgiving him by whose hands they had been in- 
flicted, and not only forgiving but doing her ut- 
most to shield him from justly merited punish- 
ment, illustrates the character of a true woman’s 
love, and finds no counterpart save in the divine 
love which prompted the Son of God to come down 
to earth and suflTer and die that he might redeem 
from deserved punishment those who had oflended 
against the majesty of His Father’s law. 

For a time Mr. Aston was undecided what to say 
or do. Certainly his inclination was strong to in- 
flict upon his recreant son-in-law the just recom- 
pense of his crimes, and he could not resist Eva’s 
pleading looks and words. After hesitating for a 
time he said : 

“ It shall be as you say, my daughter. I will 
promise to make no effort to chastise him as he 
deserves, provided you at once and forever aban- 
don him, and make no effort to hold any inter- 
course with him on any account. You shall leave 
this house and return home with me, and so Ions: 
as he stays away and makes no claim to control 
you or your child in any way, so long he is safe. 
But if he comes near you, let him beware.” 

Eva made no reply. She felt that she had 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


231 


achieved a victory, and that it was best to say 
nothing more. She justly reflected that perhaps 
no circumstances would ever arise which would 
render it necessary for her to interfere farther in 
shielding her husband from the wrath of her 
father, and should it become necessary, it would be 
time enough to act when the emergency arose. 

Her father called a carriage, assisted herself and 
her child into it, and took a seat by her side, and 
in a few moments she had again arrived at the 
home of her childhood, the only place where she 
had ever known any real, lasting happiness. She 
was welcomed by Mrs. Aston with as much kind- 
ness as she could have been had she been her own 
child, and her indignation at the treatment Eva 
had received was only equaled by that of her hus- 
band. From this time Eva and her boy found a 
home with Mr. Aston, and at the time Mary be- 
came an inmate of the house little Eddie had 
grown to the age of seventeen months. 

He was a bright-eyed, prattling little fellow, 
just beginning to talk, and Mary thought he was 
the most interesting child she had ever seen, and 
it was her attention to him which flrst laid the 
foundation of that friendship between herself and 
his mother which soon became an indissoluble 
tie, binding them together more strongly than 
bands of iron. 


232 


CHRISTLIKE. 


CHAPTER XYII. 

Mary had been some time at Mr. Aston’s before 
she became intimate with Eva, as mentioned at 
the close of the last chapter. Within a day or 
two after she came on to Indianapolis to join her 
husband, as the reader is already aware, and when 
she had but barely been introduced to Mrs. Earl, 
the latter left home for a visit of some weeks’ dura- 
tion to some friends in New York. It was not un- 
til after the death of Dr. Wills that she returned, 
and then was just when Mary was most accessible 
to the claims and demands of a heart yearning for 
companionship. 

One day Mary was passing through the hall up 
to her room. Little Eddie had wandered into the 
hall, and as she came along he tried to say some- 
thing to her in his childish way. His innocent 
prattle touched her heart, and stooping down she 
caught him up in her arms, and fled upstairs with 
him as though she were committing some crime 
and feared detection. An hour later the house was 
in commotion. Eddie was missing, and as no one 
had seen Mary carry him off, all sorts of conjec- 
ture as to what had become of him were at once 
afloat. The house was searched from cellar to gar- 
ret without result, and serious fears were begin- 
ning to be felt, when suddenly Eva burst into 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


233 


Mary’s room without even the ceremony of knock- 
ing. 

“ Oh ! Mrs. Wills,” she began, in an excited 
tone, ‘‘ have you seen ” — and then she suddenly 
stopped, for there was the object of her anxious 
search snugly curled up on Mary’s bed and fast 
asleep. 

“ Dear little fellow,” said she, approaching the 
bed. “ How terrified we all were. We thought he 
was lost. How came he here ?” 

“ I picked him up in the hall,” said Mary, “ and 
brought him up here, and after playing with him 
for awhile he got sleepy and I put him to bed. I 
had no thought of causing any uneasiness or 
alarm, and am very sorry I have done so. But 
pray,” she continued, restraining Eva, who was 
about to waken him, “ do not disturb him. Sit 
with me until he finishes his nap, and then you 
can take him away if you wish.” 

“ Perhaps I had better not disturb him,” said 
Eva, “so I will just step down and tell them the 
lost is found, and then I will return and stay till 
he wakens.” 

“ Thank you,” was the response, and the young 
mother tripped down the stairs to relieve the anxi- 
ty pervading the entire household on his account. 

This was the commencement of their intimacy, 
and as the lives of both, though brief, had been 
clouded all over with sorrow, albeit there was not 
much similarity between the trials they had been 
called to endure, they very soon became intimate 


234 


CHRISTLIKE. 


and confidential friends and associates. The bur- 
dens which each was bearing created a bond of 
sympathy between them, and whenever Mary was 
at home from the gallery where she was employed, 
she and Eva were sure to be found in close com- 
panionship, either reading some favorite author, 
engaged in interesting conversation, or strolling 
pensively and silently about the well arranged 
grounds pertaining to Mr. Aston’s residence. 

One evening they were in the garden together — 
it was late in the fall, but the weather was still 
pleasant — and were silently walking up and down 
one of the broad gravel walks. Suddenly Mary 
stopped and faced her friend : 

“ Do you know,” said she, “ that I have some 
time been thinking of doing what you will no 
doubt call a very foolish thing ?” 

“ No, indeed,” replied Eva, with pretended as- 
tonishment, ‘‘ I have never imagined that my 
friend could think of, much less do, a foolish 
thing. Pray, what is it ? Tell me and perhaps I 
may not think it so foolish after all.” 

“ Let us go in here and sit down,” said Mary, 
taking her friend by the arm and leading her 
toward an arbor, “ and I will tell you all about 
it.” 

They entered the arbor and sat down, and for a 
few moments neither one spoke. 

“Come,” said Eva at last, after waiting some 
time for her friend in vain, “what is this very 
foolish thing? I am dying with impatience to 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


235 


hear it,” but certainly the laugh with which the 
words were accompanied contained no very strong 
indication of immediate dissolution. 

Thus urged, Mary began, though after entering 
the arbor she wished she had not said anything 
about it. / 

“I have often spoken to you of my friend in 
Idaho,” said she. “It has been months since I 
have heard anything of him, and I know not 
whether he is living or dead. The holidays will 
soon be here. I have been thinking of sending 
him some little token which, if he be living, shall 
recall me to his memory ; a book or two, or some- 
thing of that sort. And yet it seems to me that 
after what has passed between us it would be 
rather unladylike. What do you think of it?” 

Eva did not answer immediately. She sat with 
her eyes cast upon the ground, apparently in deep 
thought. At last she spoke : 

“My dear Mary, answer me two or three ques- 
tions. Do you still love this man, and would you 
wed with him if he were to return and ask you to 
do so?” 

“From you I will conceal nothing,” replied 
Mary, in a low tone, while a crimson Hush over- 
spread her face and neck. “ I do love him, and I 
suppose I always shall while life and reason are 
left to me. And were he to ask me to-morrow to 
marry him, despite his seeming desertion, I should 
answer ‘ yes ’ without hesitation. I know all you 
would say : that it is unnatural, unwomanly, and 


236 


CHRISTLIKE. 


all that sort of thing, but still I cannot help it. 
Further, I cannot but believe that his seeming de- 
sertion is susceptible of some explanation which 
will remove the sting from it, and render apparent 
what I have for some time believed — that I was 
too hasty and that my marriage with Dr. Wills 
was all wrong. I did not love him.” 

“Then you never loved Dr. Wills?” 

“Yes, and he very well understood it, at least,” 
she added, hesitatingly, as the remembrance of 
the death-bed scene rose up before her, “ until the 
moment of his death. I was a true wife ; we w:ere 
happy.” 

“ Poor Mary, how much more sorrowful your life 
has been than my own,” said Eva, tenderly pass- 
ing her arm around her waist. “But what assur- 
ance have you of his loving you at the present, or 
of his ever having done so ? ” 

“None, save my faith in the promises and pro 
^ testations which he made before going away,” 
replied Mary. “ It did not seem to me then that 
all his vows, made with so much apparent earnest- 
ness, could be the false and unmeaning sounds 
they have since appeared to be, and I cannot now 
think that he is false. There must be some ter- 
rible misunderstanding about the matter, I am 
sure. And oh ! how dreadful to me may be that 
misunderstanding if not properly cleared up. 
Still, what can a lady under such circumstances 
do?” and she shuddered with the intensity of the 
emotion thronging her soul. 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


237 


^‘But how do you account for his never having 
written to you since that time ? ” 

“ He knew that I was married, because a copy 
of the published notice was sent to him,” replied 
Mary, “and of course he deemed me false, and 
having never heard anything more from me, has 
kept silent, of course. I have no idea he knows of 
my husband’s death.” 

“I hardly know how to advise you,” said Eva. 
“ It may be all as you say, and if so, sending this 
present might be the means of insuring happiness 
to you both. On the other hand, should he have 
willfully and intentionally abandoned you, this 
effort at a renewal of the acquaintance which he, 
perchance, desires terminated, might result in 
nothing but shame and confusion. My advice 
would be to take counsel, not from your inclina- 
tion, but from your calm, deliberate judgment, 
and act as that bids you. But in any event do 
nothing hastily, and nothing you will hereafter 
regret, let it terminate as it will.” 

She pronounced the last words with more than 
usual earnestness and emphasis, for she really 
feared that her friend would do something rash in 
the somewhat dangerous ground upon which she 
was then treading. And having delivered this 
friendly caution, the two arose from the seat they 
had been occupying and silently sought the house. 

They each retired to their rooms, but for a long 
time ere Mary retired she sat musing upon the 
conversation she had just had with Mrs. Earl, and 


23*8 


CHRISTLIKE. 


trying to decide what she should do relative to 
the subject-matter of the conversatiou. And when 
a decision was finally reached, we very much fear 
that, notwithstanding Eva’s impressive caution, 
inclination had more to do with her decision than 
her judgment, for she decided to send the books. 

And yet we would not condemn her too harshly 
for so doing. A prude will of course roll up her 
eyes and elevate her hands in holy horror upon 
being told that Mary sent a holiday gift to a man 
to whom she had been once engaged, with whom 
the engagement had been broken off by his act, 
and from whom she had not since heard. Indeed, 
we do not think we would have done just as she 
did under the same circumstances, but still we do 
not think there was any criminality connected 
with what she did — it was merely a matter in 
which her judgment differed from what ours would 
— and however ill-advised we may have judged 
her action to be, we have no right to impute blame 
to her. If no one in the world ever does anything 
worse than this, surely this earth will speedily 
become a much happier place than it now is. 

In due time she purchased and sent to her friend 
‘‘ Gus ” three volumes of the most popular publi- 
cations she could find in the city. She wrote her 
name in each, and without other indication of 
what she in her secret heart hoped they might 
accomplish, she sent them on their way into the 
almost trackless wilds of the far west, there to 
meet the wanderer and remind him that far away 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


in the land of civilization and sunshine there was 
one who at least remembered his name and felt an 
interest in his welfare. 


:240 


CHRISTLIKE. 


CHAPTER Xyill. 

There is no principle of human nature more 
fully confirmed by the experience and observation 
of every one than those who have been reclaimed 
from the path of error, no matter of what kind or 
by what infiuences reclaimed — become at once the 
most earnest and ardent advocates of the right, 
even excelling in earnestness those by whose 
efforts their own regeneration has been effected. 
It is the existence of this principle which leads 
the reformed inebriate to advocate the cause of 
temperance with more earnestness and sincerity 
than one who has never gone astray — it was this 
principle which made the Apostle Paul the most 
ardent and devoted of the followers of our Lord 
and Master, even as before his miraculous conver- 
sion he had been the most relentless of persecu- 
tors. No one can read the noble defense of this 
man before King Agrippa without recognizing in 
all its force the existence of the principle we are 
considering, and which in connection with the 
grace of God enabled him then and there to con- 
found his accusers, and almost to persuade his 
judge to embrace the despised religion of which 
he was so earnest an advocate. 

Thousands of other instances might be adduced, 
if necessary, to prove the truth of the existence of 
this principle, but it will hardly be disputed by 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


241 


any one, and though “ the zeal of new converts ” 
has been sometimes spoken of in sneering terms 
by the unthinking, and though that zeal may 
sometimes, for want of proper direction, accom- 
plish less of good than it otherwise might, still it 
cannot successfully be denied that for much of the 
advancement of every wholesome reform the world 
is indebted to the existence of this salutary prin- 
ciple. 

Mary was no exception to the general rule which 
we have been considering. She had wandered in 
the mazy and devious paths of sin and shame, and 
had drank the bitterest waters of the pool of deg- 
radation, but the hand of kindness, guided by the 
precepts inculcated by one of the noblest of human 
orders, had been extended to her, and she had 
been lifted from the mire and placed upon the firm 
pedestal of virtue and happiness, and now her 
whole efforts were directed to the relief of the poor 
unfortunates who were treading the same thorny 
path from which she had so lately herself escaped. 
She felt that it was a duty she owed to the mem- 
ory of the noble man, now sleeping in an unknown 
grave far from home and friends, by whom her 
own rescue had been effected, that no opportunity 
to do good in this direction should be allowed to 
pass unimproved, and, besides, it was in this way 
only that she could stifle the reproaches of her 
conscience for her own past sin. 

Many a time did the noble girl in the discharge 

of her self-imposed duty visit localities where the 
16 


242 


CHRISTLIKE. 


brutal oath, the obscene jest, the bacchanalian 
song would curdle the blood with horror or crim- 
som the cheek of the hearer with the warm blush 
of outraged modesty, and where a heart less de- 
voted to the interests of suffering humanity than 
was hers might well have shrunk appalled. Ah ! 
the world but faintly realizes the horrid character 
of the scenes amid which she was so constantly 
laboring. But still she persevered, and many a 
fallen wretch learned to bless the pale and sorrow- 
ful woman to whose gentle ministrations they owed 
so much. 

In these visits she was not unfrequently accom- 
panied by the author, who has seen tears of 
repentance course down cheeks hallowed by care 
and remorse and suffering, as she earnestly be- 
sought the wretched creatures to turn from their 
evil ways to the walks of virtue. But not in the 
way of admonition alone did she manifest her in- 
terest in those whose fellow she had so lately 
been. The contents of her slender purse — all that 
she could spare from her own absolute necessities, 
were freely contributed to their assistance, to aid 
those who were desirous of escaping from the 
thralldom in which they were held. Ah! how 
much of good might be accomplished in the way 
of reclaiming fallen humanity if professed Chris- 
tians would but make half the efforts in their 
respective spheres that did the heroine of our tale. 

One morning she called upon the author before 
breakfast, holding in her hand the morning paper. 


. SAVE THE FALLEN. 


243 


She seemed somewhat excited, and scarcely wait- 
ing to exchange salutations, said : 

“ Oh ! Annie, have you seen the paper this 
morning ? There is an account of the arrest of a 
young girl only seventeen years of age, as an in- 
mate of one of those horrid places. She will he 
tried at the police court this morning, and prob- 
ably sent to the workhouse unless some one be- 
friends her. I am going to see her, and wish 
you to accompany -me. Will you go?” 

“What name does the account give her?” 

“The name given is Ada Yance, but this is 
doubtless assumed,” replied Mary. “ Somehow I 
feel as if this girl might be saved, and my con- 
science would forever condemn me if I made no 
effort to do so.” 

“I feel,” replied her friend, “just as you do 
about it, but still do not think we should be too 
hasty about it. Let us do nothing rashly. Had 
we not better have breakfast before we go ? ” 

“ I would much prefer to wait for breakfast until 
we come back. I want to go to the prison, see her 
and learn her history before the trial. It may be 
that we will decide from such an interview that it 
is useless to try to do anything for her.” 

“ Well, let it be as you say,” said her friend. 
“I will be ready in a moment,” and as she spoke 
she left the room to prepare for the walk. 

A few minutes’ walk brought us to the city jail, 
and as Mary was well known to the keeper, having 
frequently been there on similar errands, we were 


244 


CHRISTLIKE. 


admitted witliout delay. Inquiring for the young 
girl, the account of whose arrest had so moved my 
friend, we were pointed to a young woman at the 
farther end of the room, seated on a bench, with 
her face hidden in her hands. We approached 
her, but she seemed entirely unaware of our pres- 
ence until Mary touched her on the shoulder. 
Then she raised her head and displayed a counte- 
nance of rare beauty, but which was now wan and 
haggard with care and sorrow, while her eyes were 
red and swollen with weeping. She waited to be 
addressed, evidently not knowing what to make of 
our visit. 

“Are you Ada Yance?” asked Mary at length. 

“ Yes, lady,” she replied, in a voice low and 
musical, but full of plaintive sorrow, “ at least,” 
she added hastily, and with some confusion, “ that 
is what I call myself here.” 

“ Then that is not really your name,” said Mary, 
quietly. 

“ No, it is not. But why do you ask ? Of what 
interest can the name of one like me be to you ? ” 

“Because,” said Mary, earnestly, “I want to 
serve you. I am sure you are not happy in the 
life you are leading, and I would do something to 
save you from it.” 

“ Happy ! oh ! no ; indeed, I am most miserable. 
But there is no help for me,” and the poor girl 
shuddered with agony. 

“ Do not say that,” said Mary, gently stroking 
her shining black hair. “ Will you promise to live 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


245 


a life of virtue and uprightness if I will get you 
out of here ? ” 

“ Oh ! yes, and, lady, I will forever bless you 
for it. I am not a bad girl at heart, and if you 
will only take me away from here, I will do any- 
thing you may desire. I will work for you every 
hour of my life, if you will only help me away 
from here,” said she, in tones of the most feverish 
anxiety, while she gazed earnestly and beseech- 
ingly into Mary’s face. 

“Well, my dear child,” said Mary, evidently 
touched by her emotion, “ tell me your history, 
and I will see what I can do for you. Do not fear 
to tell me all. You may rely upon me as a true 
friend, and one who is desirous only to serve you. 
How came you in this place ? ” 

“I cannot tell you all my life now,” said the 
girl, resting her head upon Mary’s bosom, “but I 
will some day if I get out of here.” 

“ Yes, Ada, tell me now,” urged Mary. “ You 
need not hesitate on account of the presence of this 
lady. She is my friend, and anything you say be- 
fore her will be as safe as if you told it to me 
alone. Come, Annie,” turning to me, “ sit down 
and hear what this poor girl has to say.” 

Thus urged she began : 

“ My real name is Marcia C. Howard. My father 
died when I was about six years old and I remem- 
ber very little about him. About three years after 
his death my mother married a man by the name 
of Johnson, and she and I went to live with him in 


246 


CHRISTLIKE. 


Lawrence. We continued to live together until I 
was a little over fourteen years of age, when one 
day in the absence of my mother my stepfather, 
partly by force and partly by threats, perpetrated 
upon me an outrage too horrible to tell, and I fled 
from my home. My mother, having learned my 
whereabouts, came and took me home, but I dared 
not tell my reason for leaving, for my stepfather 
had promised to kill me if I ever revealed his 
guilty secret. By threats he induced me to keep 
silent for some time, until I could endure it no 
longer, and I secretly left home with a traveling 
circus troupe which came through that section. 
There was a lady attached to the troupe who took 
me under her protection, and for a time I got along 
very well. But one day she was kicked in the 
temple by a horse belonging to the establishment 
and instantly killed. In this dilemma I was glad 
to accept the protection of one of the ring-masters 
who had paid me some attention, but whose con- 
duct toward me had always been respectful in the 
extreme. He now appeared to commiserate my 
loneliness and told me he would care and provide 
for me as for a sister, and soon after proposed that 
we should leave the circus and get irfto some 
other business in this city. To this I consented, 

and we came here and stopped at a house on 

Street. I soon learned the character of the house, 
and attempted to leave, but I was detained a pris- 
oner, and finally drugged and forced to comply 
with his wishes. After keeping me there about 


SAVE THE FALLEN". 


247 


three weeks, he finally left, and the very next 
night all the inmates of the house were arrested, 
and here I am,” and overcome by her feelings, she 
burst into tears and sobbed aloud. 

‘‘There, don’t cry,” said Mary, “but keep up 
your spirits, and we will see what can be done.” 

“My only hope is in you,” replied Ada, still 
weeping. “ I have no money and no friends, and 
unless you can dp something for me I shall be 
sent to the workhouse, I suppose. I am aware I 
deserve it, but still the idea of going there is not a 
very pleasant one to contemplate.” 

“Have you heard anything from your mother 
since you left ? ” 

“ Yes, she is dead. She died about a year ago.” 

“ Have you any brothers or sisters ? ” 

“I had one brother, but I have never seen him 
since our mother’s second marriage. He was very 
much opposed to the marriage and refused to live 
at home any longer. He went away the same day 
she was married, in the evening, and never came 
home again while I was there.” 

“ Do you know where he is ? ” asked Mary. 

“ He was in Cleveland, Ohio, the last I heard of 
him,” replied the girl, “ but that has been over a 
year ago, and I do not know whether he is there 
or not.” 

“Do you know anything about his circum- 
stances ; whether they are such that he could pro- 
vide for you if you went to him ? ” asked Mary. 


248 


CHRISTLIKE. 


“And more than that, do you think he would 
receive you ? ’’ 

“ I do not know. He used to think a great deal 
of me in our childhood days, and I hardly think he 
would cast me off now,’’ replied Ada. “ But I am 
so changed from what I was then that it is hard to 
tell.” 

“Well, we will see. Keep up your spirits and 
all will yet come out well. And now, for the pres- 
ent, good-bye,” said Mary, as with her friend she 
left the prison. 

They went to the court room and there waited 
until the case of Ada Yance was called. She 
entered the bar with a firm step, very pale, but 
calm in outward demeanor, though the heaving 
bosom and quivering lip told how hard the strug- 
gle to maintain her forced appearance of compo- 
sure. As she glanced around the room and her 
eye fell upon the forms of her two visitors, her 
countenance visibly brightened whil^ a sense of 
relief filled her heart. 

When the charge was preferred against her, and 
she was asked what she had to say, she answered 
in a low voice, almost inaudible with emotion, 
“ Guilty.” 

“Policeman, what are the circumstances?” said 
the magistrate, with an air of professional indif- 
ferance. 

The guardian of the city told his story in a few 
brief words. 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


249 


“ Ten dollars fine,” said the magistrate, and the 
trial was ended. 

Mary stepped forward, paid the fine, and the 
three left the room together. Marcia (as we will 
henceforth call her) was weeping tears of gratitude 
to her benefactress, and was so much overcome 
with emotion that it was with difficulty she could 
walk, but Mary took her home with her and in a 
short time had her restored to a fair degree of 
composure, and able to deliberate as to future 
movements. 

“You must remain with me for the present,” 
said Mary. “ You can share my room, and mean- 
time I will publish a notice in the Cleveland 
papers, and if your brother is there we shall soon 
hear from him.” 

“I can never forget your kindness,” said Marcia, 
her voice trembling with emotion, “ and if it is ever 
in my power to return it, be assured I shall not 
fail to do so.” 

“ Never mind about that now,” said Mary, ten- 
derly kissing her ; “ I shall be more than repaid 
if I succeed in saving you from the life of degrada- 
tion upon which you were just entering. And I 
feel assured that this reward I shall not lose.” 

“ By the help of God, you shall not,” replied the 
girl, with solemn energy. 

For three weeks Marcia remained with her new- 
found friend. In the meantime Mary prepared, 
and sent to Cleveland for publication in the city 
papers, a notice requesting William C. Howard to 


250 


CHRISTLIKE. 


send her his address, promising in return to give 
information concerning his sister Marcia. At the 
end of this time came a letter from the gentleman 
himself, thanking her in the most earnest terms 
for the promised information, and entreating her 
to lose no time in enabling him to find his long 
lost sister. He said he had spent considerable 
sums of money in advertising and trying to find 
her for several years, but learning nothing of her 
whereabouts had come to the conclusion she was 
dead, and had given up the search. 

Poor Marcia was almost beside herself with joy 
at the receipt of this letter. She felt that she 
was no longer alone in the world, but that she 
still had some one to love and care for her, and 
her heart glowed with renewed gratitude to the 
friend by whose aid and kindness this happy 
consummation had been brought about. So im- 
patient was she to set out for the home of her 
brother, upon receipt of this letter, that she could 
hardly wait until Mary could make the necessary 
preparations to accompany her, for Mary would 
not consent that Marcia should make the journey 
alone. No, she had ‘‘ plucked her as a brand from 
the burning,” and though she had the most unlim- 
ited confidence in the permanence of her reforma- 
tion, still she felt that entire compliance with the 
requirements of duty demanded that she should 
stay with her until she placed her in the hands of 
those who would be both able and willing to take 
care of her. Besides, she knew nothing as yet of 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


251 


the brother, or his circumstances, and she desired 
to see for herself that her protege would be prop- 
erly cared for, as otherwise she had resolved to 
bring her back to her western home and take 
charge of her herself. 

Her preparations were all completed in about 
twenty-four hours, and they entered the cars for 
Cincinnati, intending to proceed thence by rail to 
the home of Marcia’s brother. They arrived at 
Cleveland in due time without any incidents 
worthy of note, and were greeted by Mr. Howard 
with a warmth and earnestness of welcome which 
gave certain assurance that the little wanderer had 
found rest and a secure retreat at last. 

After the first greetings were over, Mr. Howard, 
Marcia and Mary, retired to a room by themselves, 
where all the incidents of the past were related 
and fully discussed and commented on. Mary 
had insisted upon this before she left, for she felt 
unwilling to leave Marcia until a full explanation 
had been made and her brother had expressed his 
views relative to the same. He listened in silence 
to her tale, and when it was finished, he silently 
folded her in his arms. 

“ My poor sister,” said he, you have been more 
sinned against than sinning. But you shall never 
want protection or shelter again. As for you, 
noble woman,” said he, turning to Mary and ex- 
tending his hand while his eyes filled with tears 
of gratitude, “ God will reward you for your kind- 


252 


CHRISTLIKE. 


ness to a poor unfortunate like my sister — man 
never can.” 

Mary took the extended hand in silence. Her 
heart was too full for her to trust herself and she 
made no reply, but an angel might have envied her 
feelings. She felt at that moment the highest de- 
light which can thrill with emotion the human 
heart — the consciousness of having performed a 
good action, and saved an immortal soul from 
everlasting destruction. She felt that she had par- 
tially atoned for her long career of sinfulness, and 
nothing could have induced her to yield the satis- 
faction with which she contemplated her action. 

She remained in Cleveland a day or two at the 
house of Mr. Howard, and then took her leave, 
followed by the blessings and good wishes of the 
entire family.* She went without the least misgiv- 
ing as to the future of Marcia, for Mr. Howard 
was a gentleman of refinement, culture and correct 
principles, while his pecuniary circumstances were 
such as to enable him to provide abundantly and 
comfortably for his sister, thus placing her at once 
and forever beyond the reach of temptation. In 
his excellent wife, too, he had a most efiicient 
helpmeet in the good work to be done, and Mary 
felt assured that the reformation of Marcia would 
encounter no coldness or indifierence at her hands, 
and she left feeling the most abiding confidence 
that the work which she had so happily begun 
would be carried on to the perfect day. 

Before she left, Mr. Howard insisted upon reim- 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


253 


bursing her the money she had expended on 
Marcia’s account, but to this she would not con- 
sent. She assured him that she desired nothing 
of the kind ; that what she had done had given 
her a sense of peace and rest to which she had 
been a stranger for years, and now were she to ac- 
cept any compensation it would destroy all the 
happiness she derived from this source. When he 
found she was not to be shaken, he insisted that 
she should at least accept a present of a hundred 
dollars, to be used in some similar case. To this 
she at last consented, and receiving the money 
from him she returned to her boarding-house at 
Indianapolis, where the atmosphere seemed to 
glow with a brighter halo than before on account 
of her noble deed. 


254 


CHRISTLIKE. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Several months of Mary’s life now passed in 
peace and quiet — indeed she is accustomed to 
speak of the eight months immediately following 
her return from Cleveland as among the most quiet 
periods of her whole life — not that her labor of 
love was by any means intermitted, but nothing 
worthy of special mention in this story took place. 
She prosecuted with unremitting industry the 
labor of the vocation she had chosen, and in de- 
votion to this, and in contemplation of the good 
deed she had done, she found relief from the sor- 
rowful reflections which would otherwise have 
crowded upon her. 

She had corresponded constantly with her Cleve- 
land friends, and many a highly prized token of 
esteem and good-will had she received from them, 
while they had never ceased to invoke Heaven’s 
choicest blessings upon her head for the inestim- 
able favor she had conferred upon them. 

But when she had been at home eight months, 
the mail one morning brought her two letters 
which created quite a buzz of excitement in her 
little world. The one was from Cleveland, while 
the other bore a post-mark which at once arrested 
her attention, and for a moment caused her blood 
almost to stand still. From the shining land of 
gold, far off among the fastnesses of the Rocky 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


255 ^ 


Mountains, came that little messenger, and who 
shall wonder or blame her that for a moment she 
hesitated, dreading, yet wishing to open it, and 
master its contents ? Would it fructify or blast 
the hopes, the germs of which had been so long 
cherished down deep in the most secret recesses of 
her heart ? For a short space she stood in silent 
indecision and then broke the seal. 

And as her eyes fell upon the first words, a low 
cry of heartfelt joy escaped her lips, and murmur- 
ing, “My God, I thank thee,’’ she sank upon a 
chair, while a deep anthem of thankfulness arose 
from the true heart which had so long borne in 
silence its heavy burden. For there was the 
blessed evidence that her waiting and watching so 
many long and weary months had not been in 
vain. He who had so long been the master of her 
heart and the possessor of its choicest treasures — 
he whom she had so long and truly loved, almost 
as it were against hope — was coming back to her 
to claim the fulfillment of the promise so long since 
given and to make her his bride. Yes, her con- 
stant love was at last to meet its reward, and a 
bright haven of rest for her weary and storm- 
tossed bark was just opening to view. The angry 
waves of fate by which her frail craft had been 
so long buffeted were about to be hushed into 
everlasting quiet and calm repose, and what won- 
der that deep and fervent thankfulness to the 
Giver of all took possession of and pervaded her 
entire soul ? 


256 


CHRISTLIKE. 


During all this time she had neglected, and 
almost forgotten the letter from Cleveland. She 
knew of course that it was from her friend Marcia, 
and the deep interest she felt in all that concerned 
her would have effectually prevented any forget- 
fulness or inattention under any circumstances of 
less overwhelming importance to herself. And 
now, when she had regained her mental composure 
to some extent, she returned to the perusal of this 
letter with a sort of half self-reproach for having 
so long neglected it. 

And here a new surprise awaited her. The let- 
ter was indeed from her friend, but she was en- 
tirely unprepared for its contents, for they were 
neither more nor less than an earnest invitation to 
attend her approaching wedding in the character 
of bridesmaid. She was about being united with 
a most worthy young man by the name of Charles 
Cady. He was a lawyer by profession, and though 
but lately admitted to practice, he had already 
achieved a position in the ranks of his profession 
which might well be envied by many a practitioner 
of twice his years. He had accidently met Marcia 
when making a business call at the house of her 
brother, and had been deeply impressed with her 
beauty and intelligence, and this first impression 
had been but more and more developed and 
strengthened by the subsequent interviews which 
he constantly sought with her, until at last he had 
become convinced that she was absolutely essen- 
tial to his future happiness. 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


257 


For a long time she had discouraged his ad- 
vances, although her heart bade her pursue di- 
rectly the opposite course, but when he had at last 
embraced a favorable opportunity to tell her of his 
love, and implored her to share his lot, she had re- 
ferred him to her brother, telling him that if after 
such an interview he still remained of the same 
opinion, she would then consent to become his 
bride. In this interview Mr. Howard had unfolded 
to his young friend the entire history of Marcia’s 
past life ; her fall and reformation, and the circum- 
stances with which each had been attended. When 
the story was completed he sat in silent meditation 
for a short time and then sought Marcia’s pres- 
ence. 

“ My dear Marcia,” said he tenderly, taking her 
by the hand, “ I know all, and my mind is still 
unchanged. I feel that you are as necessary as 
ever to my happiness, and I come to claim the ful- 
fillment of your promise.” 

“ Has my brother told you all of my past his- 
tory ?” she asked, timidly. 

“ Yes, everything,” he replied, “ and the recital 
has but confirmed my previously formed impres- 
sions of your character. While I may and do 
regret that you should have fallen into error, still 
your noble truthfulness in relation to the matter 
is the best proof that the error never contaminated 
your heart, and but increases my confidence in 
you. Will you now be my wife ? ” 

“Yes, Charles, I will,” she replied, fervently, 
17 


258 


CHRISTLIKE. 


“and by the blessing of Heaven I will endeavor to 
so live as to merit and justify your generous con- 
fidence.” 

“ God bless you,” he ejaculated in tones of deep, 
earnest affection, as he clasped her in his arms 
and imprinted a warm kiss upon her lips, and thus 
was their troth plighted. 

And now the time had come when their vows 
were to be redeemed, or rather superseded by the 
higher and holier, because more solemnly pledged, 
vows of the marriage state. And it was to assist 
at the pledging of these higher and holier vows 
that Mary was now so urgently invited by her 
friend, for Marcia had declared that under no cir- 
cumstances could she consent to wed without the 
presence of her whom she regarded with an affec- 
tionate veneration almost akin to that with which 
a Christian contemplates his Divine Savior. 

To such an invitation so earnestly and tenderly 
urged Mary had of course but one answer. 
Although it would interfere sadly with the prose- 
cution of her vocation, which was so essential to 
her subsistence, she could not refuse the request 
of her friend, nor would she forego the pleasure of 
witnessing the union for life of one in whom she 
had taken so deep an interest, with one whose no- 
bleness and truth enabled him to triumph over the 
spirit of persecution too generally prevalent in the 
world. Accordingly, she dispatched by the first 
mail a letter to her friend, warmly congratulating 
her upon her approaching nuptials, and assuring 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


259 


her that she would be present on the interesting 
occasion. 

Ah! how earnestly she wished that that other 
dear friend, whose missive of love she had but 
that morning received, was there to accompany 
her — to share in the pleasure with wliich she 
would witness the marriage of her friend. But it 
might not be. Many hundreds of weary miles 
separated them, and many a long week would 
elapse before she should see his loved features or 
listen to the warm words in which he would con- 
vey the assurances so glowingly expressed in the 
letter before her, and she must be content for a 
season yet to watch and wait, although that sea- 
son, unlike the ones through which she had so 
recently passed, would be modified and warmed 
by the gay coloring of well-grounded hope. But 
to the wedding. 

When she reached the residence of Mr. Howard 
in Cleveland, she was welcomed by all with a 
warmth which convinced her that her past efforts 
in behalf of the unfortunate outcast had by no 
means been forgotten. Marcia and her brother, 
as well as the family of the latter, vied with each 
other in the effort to prove the sincerity of their 
gratitude to her for having saved from eternal ruin 
her who, but for the interposition of Mary, would 
doubtless have been forever lost, but who was now 
loved, honored and admired by all who knew her, 
and who was so soon to become the bride of a 
noble and honorable mati. Mr. Cady, too, the 


260 


CHRISTLIKE. 


affianced of her friend, to whom she was introduced 
on the very evening of her arrival, testified in the 
warmest manner his appreciation of the goodness 
which had induced her to do so much for one who 
was now so dear to him. But pleasing as were 
these testimonials to her, she had still a higher 
and holier reward — that reward which invariably 
follows the performance of a good action — the 
whisper of an approving conscience, and the smile 
upon her soul of an approving God. 

It is not necessary that we should go into the 
details of all the preparations for the wedding — 
the dress of the bride or of her bridesmaid, the 
appearance of the groom and groomsman, or any 
matter of that kind. Our lady readers can imag- 
ine all they choose in relation to that, and as to 
those of the other sex it would be merely “ love’s 
labor lost.” W e mean no disrespect to the sterner 
sex, however. Suffice it to say that the bride 
looked very beautiful, and when she and the 
chosen of her heart uttered the vows which bound 
them together for life, it was with an earnestness 
and sincerity which convinced all who heard them 
that those vows would, with the blessing of 
Heaven, be kept in the fullness of their letter and 
spirit throughout all time to come. 

After the ceremony was performed and the 
friends present had tendered their congratulations, 
the entire company descended to the dining-room, 
where a magnificent collation awaited them. And 
we venture to assert that never, even in the hospit- 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


261 


able mansion of Mr. Howard, had been assembled 
a happier crowd or one more free from care than 
graced it on this occasion. Wit and merriment, 
not of the ephemeral and unnatural character 
which flows from the use of wine (for that not un- 
frequent bane of fashionable society found no 
place upon Mr. Howard’s table), but that born of 
freedom from care and well-cultivated minds, 
floated gaily around, and time fled by unnoticed 
until the coachman appeared and informed them 
that the carriage was in waiting to take them to 
the depot, and that it was almost time for the de- 
parture of the train which was to bear them away 
to Cincinnati. 

Cincinnati was the place of residence of Mr. 
Cady’s parents, and it had been arranged that 
they should go thither to spend the honeymoon. 
It was with some degree of trepidation that Marcia 
went to visit her parents of a few hours. She had 
never seen them, and she almost feared lest they 
might not approve the choice their son had made, 
but never was any one more happily disappointed. 
Her beauty, intelligence and evident goodness as 
completely captivated the hearts of the old people 
as the same qualities had already ensnared the 
heart of the son, and before she had been there 
two hours she felt as if she had known them all 
her life, while they upon their part loved her 
almost as though she had been their own child by 
the law of nature instead of only by the law of 
marriage. 


262 


CHRISTLIKE. 


After a few weeks spent in uninterrupted happi- 
ness in the society of her father-in-law and mother- 
in-law, the new wife departed in company with 
her husband and Maiy (who had accompanied 
them from Cleveland) for Indianapolis, where, 
after leaving her, the loving husband and wife 
were to proceed on the way to the home they were 
to occupy in Cleveland. No incidents worthy of 
note transpired on their homeward journey, and 
in due time they reached the home of Mary, where, 
after an affectionate adieu, they left her in her 
loneliness, while they went to take possession of 
the little world of love in which they were hence- 
forth to live and move. 

It would not be strictly just to say that Mary 
envied the lot of her friend; no such feeling found 
a place in her heart, arid yet she could not sup- 
press a sigh as she contrasted Marcia’s situation 
with her own. Not for worlds would she have de- 
tracted one jot or tittle from the happiness which 
she knew her friend enjoyed, even though it had 
been necessary to assure her own, but yet she 
could not avoid wondering why it was that she 
must ever thus see others around her enjoying all 
the happiness of this world, while her pathway 
remained ever lonely and beset with interminable 
thorns. The indulgence of such feelings, however, 
was but momentary with her; her better nature 
soon drove them away, and with a firm reliance 
upon the goodness of that Providence who had so 
long watched over and protected her, she turned 


SAVE THE FALLEX. 


263 


once more with a firm spirit to the performance of 
the daily tasks which her lonely situation required 
at her hands. 

But we have for sometime lost sight of Eva Earl 
and must return to her for a short time. Sometime 
before the receipt by Mary of the two letters before 
mentioned, Eva had left home for a visit to New 
York. She had a cousin by the name of Clara 
Aston residing in that great metropolis ; that city 
which united within itself, perhaps, greater ex- 
tremes of wealth and want, luxury and misery, 
virtue and vice than any other upon the face of 
the civilized world ; where the most pious divines 
and humanitarians and the most vicious, degraded 
and unprincipled beings which disgrace the name 
and character of common humanity live and move 
and walk side by side, and where every form of 
vice and wretchedness abound with a profusion 
perhaps unknown anywhere else. This cousin had 
been on a visit to Indianapolis, and when the time 
for her return home came she earnestly and cor- 
dially invited Eva to accompany her. And as she 
had never visited the great city, and her health 
was moreover delicate, her father had advised her 
to accept the invitation, trusting that the journey 
and the change of scenery would restore something 
of her wonted bloom to her now faded cheeks ; and 
after spending some weeks there, she had returned 
but a few days before Mary reached home from 
Cincinnati. 


264 


CHRISTLIKE. 


But the journey so far from restoring her to 
health, as had been fondly hoped, had produced 
just the contrary effect. She seemed to be in a 
state of settled melancholy, while her physical 
condition was even worse than her mental. She 
had evidently met with some severe shock which 
threatened the most serious consequences. Her 
loving and anxious father tried in vain to ascer- 
tain the cause of her illness and depression of 
spirits, but her modesty prevented her confiding 
the fatal secret to him, and so it remained until 
the affectionate intimacy existing between herself 
and our heroine induced her to reveal it to the lat- 
ter. Her story was substantially as follows : 

She had been very much interested in the sights 
and scenes of New York, having never been in a 
large city before. Her cousin had shown her the 
utmost kindness and attention and had taken her 
to visit all the noted places in the city, little 
dreaming that her kindness was to be productive 
of results which would plant a rankling thorn in 
the breast of the recipient of her attentions, and 
which would for a time even threaten to undermine 
her reason and deprive her of life. 

Among other places they visited the Street 

lunatic asylum, and went through the whole of that 
celebrated institution. On their way thither Clara 
had told her cousin of the sad case of a young lady 
confined there — one with whom she had formerly 
been very intimately acquainted, but vfho had now 
been an inmate of the institution for seven or eight 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


265 - 


months. Her name was Anna Bird. She was a 
young lady of great purity of character and of a 
most tender, affectionate and confiding disposition, 
the only daughter of a widow who kept a small 
boarding house on Bleecker Street. She haa been 
wooed and won by a young man of engaging exte- 
rior and apparently good character, who boarded 
for some time with her mother. They were be- 
trothed, and the day was set for the wedding. She 
had made all necessary preparations, even to pro- 
curing her bridal robes, when but two or three 
days before the one set for the wedding, her lover 
had been attacked with the cholera, and despite 
her affectionate care and the utmost skill of the 
physician, he had died in the most excruciating 
agony. The sudden blighting of all her hopes, 
added to the agony caused by witnessing the tor- 
ments amid which her betrothed had died, had de- 
throned her reason, and from that day to this poor 
Anna had been a raving maniac. She had occa- 
sional lucid intervals, but at other times her 
demonstrations were so violent as to require the 
closest and strictest confinement to prevent her 
from destroying herself. 

This sad story brought the tears to Eva’s eyes, 
but she was soon to be subjected to a shock, of the 
severity of which she did not even dream. 

While passing through one of the wards of the 
hospital in company with Clara and an attendant, 
she was suddenly startled by hearing a female 
voice pronounce in maniac tones the name of Ed- 


CPIRISTLIKE. 


'2G6 


ward Earl, followed by a course of passionate and 
frantic entreaty to him to come back to her once 
more. As the name smote upon her ears, Eva 
started as though struck by a bolt and turned as 
pale as the whitewashed wall near which she was 
standing. 

“Ah! yes,” said the attendant, observing her 
emotion, “ poor Anna is in one of her worst moods 
to-day. But never fear, lady, she is too well con- 
fined to do any harm. Would you like to see 
her ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied Eva, moved by some indefinable 
feeling of curiosity, “ I have heard of her and 
would very much like to see her.” 

“ This way, then, ladies,” said the attendant, 
turning short to the right, “ and do you come first. 
Miss Aston, for your presence always seems to 
exercise a soothing infiuence upon her.” 

Trembling in every limb with some weighty 
emotion which she could not define, for she could 
not believe there was any connection between her- 
self and the poor, raving maniac before her, Eva 
mechanically approached the cell in which the 
wretched being was confined. And still, the fami- 
liar name, pronounced in those almost denionaic 
tones, which seemed to chill and curdle her blood 
with horror, came to her ears amid the weird 
laughter and fitful ravings with which she was 
surrounded. 

As they approached the cell the poor inmate 
came forward, and Clara spoke to her. 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


267 


“Anna,” said she kindly, “ how do you feel 
to-day ? ” 

A gleam of partial intelligence passed over her 
wan features, she ceased her ravings, and it was 
evident that though not entirely lucid she had 
recognized her old friend. 

‘Is that you, Clara?” she said, “I thought you 
were never coming to see me again.” 

Her articulation was slow and uncertain, and 
the gleam of intelligence was evidently very feeble. 

“And who is that with you ? ” she continued, 
catching sight of Eva, and pointing her long, bony 
finger at her. 

“That is my cousin, Eva Earl,” said Clara, un- 
suspectingly, for she never knew that Eva had 
been deserted by her husband, but always sup- 
posed she was a widow. 

“Eva Earl, did you say?” queried the maniac. 
“ Then you ought to know my Edward. May be 
he is a cousin of yours ; or may be a brother. 
Wouldn’t that be nice, for you are a sweet lady, 
and I love you dearly. Did you ever see him ? ” 

“ Not that I know of,” replied Eva, in a choking 
voice, for she could not help feeling that he must 
be the same. “And yet it could not be,” she said 
to herself. 

“ You never did. Well, here is his picture,” 
said the poor creature, removing from her neck a 
locket which she had been allowed to keep for the 
reason that her madness seemed to increase in vio- 
lence whenever they attempted to remove it. 


268 


CHRISTLIKE. 


“Is he not beautiful?” she continued, extend- 
ing the locket through the grating to Eva. 

Eva took it in her hand, and at that moment a 
fearful scream, followed by a peal of frantic 
laughter from the poor wretch before them, told 
all too plainly that the interval of partial lucid- 
ness had passed, and that her dread malady had 
returned in full force. 

“ Open it,” said Clara, looking at the locket 
which her cousin held in her hand, dreading yet 
desiring to open and almost uncertain what to do. 

Thus encouraged Eva touched the spring of the 
locket, but the moment her eyes fell upon the like- 
ness it contained, she uttered a scream which 
almost rivaled in wildness that of poor Anna, and 
sunk fainting to the floor. For that one brief 
glance had revealed to her the features of her 
faithless husband, of him who had promised be- 
fore God and man to love, honor and cherish her 
for all time to come ! And thouo:h he had Ions* 
since ceased to perform this vow, she had not been 
able to persuade herself that he was the perfldious 
villain he really was. But now the damning proof 
was before her and the shock was too great for her 
enfeebled frame. 

Terrified almost beyond measure, Clara raised 
her cousin’s head in her arms while the attendant 
hastened for restoratives, which were soon ap- 
plied. Eva shortly opened her eyes and they fell 
upon the locket which lay on the floor beside her. 

“ Take it away,” she whispered to her cousin^ 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


269 


with a painful shudder. ‘‘ Give it back to her, and 
let us go home. Oh ! why did I ever come here 
she moaned in agony. 

“ What is the matter, dean cousin asked the 
terrified Clara, for she knew something terrible 
had happened, but what, she was utterly unable 
to conceive. 

“ I will tell you all when we get home,” said 
Eva, shuddering again. “ But let us go now.” 

The attendant and Clara assisted her to the car- 
riage which was in waiting, and it rolled away. 
As soon as they were seated, Eva threw herself 
upon the breast of her friend, and in low and 
agonized tones which were constantly interrupted 
by her sobs, she told the whole sad story of her 
married life, with which the reader is already fa- 
miliar. Clara listened with undisguised amaze- 
ment and horror to the recital, and at its close 
gave vent to expressions of indignation at the con- 
duct of Edward Earl so intense that Eva was 
forced to defend him, albeit her own bleeding 
heart almost sanctioned every word her incensed 
cousin uttered. What a sublime spectacle. This 
woman thus wronged and trampled in the dust, 
pleading the cause of him who had by his own 
villainy blighted her young life and turned it into 
an arid desert. Surely, if Mercy and Forgiveness, 
twin sisters, have any representatives on earth, 
they are to be found in a pure, true-hearted and 
noble woman. 

Amid all the anguish caused by this positive 


270 


CHRISTLIKE. 


proof of the unworthiness of her late husband, 
Eva found one source of never-failing consolation. 
While she mourned the wreck and ruin which his 
perfidy had caused, not only to herself but to poor 
Anna Bird, she fervently thanked God that he had 
been prevented from committing the crime of big- 
amy. Although cut off in the midst of his sins, 
with all his terrible misdeeds unrepented of, from 
that crime at least he was free, and she devoutly 
praised the hand that had arrested him upon the 
threshold of that fearful and heinous sin. 

But her visit in New York was at an end. This 
dreadful discovery had put an end to any pleasure 
she might otherwise have enjoyed there, and as 
soon as she had sufficiently recovered from the 
shock, to be able to travel by rail, she departed 
for her home in company with a gentleman of her 
acquaintance in Indianapolis, who chanced to be 
in New York on business. 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


271 


CHAPTER XX. 

Such was the sad story which Eva related to 
our heroine one evening as she lay, pale and al- 
most helpless, upon a couch, by the side of which 
Mary had spent all the time she could spare from 
her duties since her return from attending the 
wedding of Marcia. 

But though Eva had mustered strength sufficient 
to endure the journey from New York to Indian- 
apolis, it had only been by overtasking her pow- 
ers, and now the unnatural draft had to be repaid 
with interest, in accordance with the immutable 
laws of nature. For some time after reaching 
home, therefore, she continued to grow weaker and 
weaker, until at last her life came to be despaired 
of, and while thus enfeebled, not only, in body, but 
also in mind, she seemed unwilling to have any 
one but Mary do anything for her. No hand could 
smooth her pillows as hers ; no one else knew so 
well as she how to prepare the draughts which 
cooled her burning fever ; no other voice could 
soothe as hers when reflection upon the dread 
scene in the lunatic asylum threatened, as it often 
did, to drive her to distraction — in short, her phy- 
sicians asserted that Eva’s final recovery depended 
very much on the presence and care of Mary. 

In this emergency, self was not to be thought of 
for a moment. She therefore gave up her situation 


272 


CHRISTLIKE. 


in the gallery and devoted herself exclusively to 
the care of her sick and suffering friend, and with 
marvelous fidelity was her self-imposed task dis- 
charged. During the long and weary weeks which 
beheld Eva prostrate upon her couch of suffering, 
save when compelled by the imperious demands 
of exhausted nature to seek temporary repose, 
Mary was never absent from her side. What mat- 
tered it to her that at times her head grew almost 
dizzy with pain from want of fresh air and exer- 
cise ; what matter if she grew pale and thin, or if 
her limbs at times, from sheer weariness, almost 
refused to obey the dictates of her will ? She was 
performing a labor of love and duty, and the fee- 
ble voice of the pallid sufferer on the low couch in 
the corner of the room never called in vain for 
fresh exertions at her hands. 

Such constant and unremitting care and atten- 
tion could not fail to bring back life and health and 
strength to the form of the invalid, and at last the 
physician told the anxious friends around her that 
danger was past, and that with proper care and 
nursing she would certainly recover. “ And to 
your faithful and affectionate care,” said he, turn- 
ing to Mary, “ much more than to any skill of 
mine, is she Indebted for her escape from the em- 
brace of the grim monster. But she is still very 
weak, and though you have already been very 
heavily taxed, we shall have to demand for her a 
still farther continuance of the burden, though I 
hope and trust it will not be for very long.” 


SAVE THE fallen. 


273 


“ It is no burden, but rather a pleasure to me,’’ 
replied Mary, sweetly, “ and I am only thankful if 
I have been instrumental in sparing this house- 
hold, to which I am indebted for so many kind- 
nesses, the misery of seeing one arm-chair forever 
vacant. But I fear,” she continued, you over- 
rate my'poor services.” 

“Indeed I do not,” replied the old physician, 
earnestly, “ the labor of our profession would be 
reduced one-half, and would be much more fre- 
quently crowned with success, if all our patients 
would be as fortunate in securing nurses as was 
our friend here. Believe me. Miss Mary, you 
merit all that I have said and much more.” 

The doctor spoke truthfully when he said that 
Eva would still require careful nursing and atten- 
tion for a time ere she could be considered as upon 
the road to convalescence. But Mary had been 
faithful to her trust too long to falter now, and 
day by day saw the fair patient gaining strength, 
but oh! so slowly. Gradually, very gradually, 
the color came back into her faded cheeks, and 
finally, when spring had come with its balmy 
breezes and warm, sunshiny days, and singing 
birds and beauteous roses, Eva Earl was able to 
ride out in an easy carriage, while warm shawls 
and robes protected her from the still lingering 
chills of the reluctantly departing winter. From 
this time her recovery was much more rapid, and 
soon she no longer needed the care of her nurse. 

But Mary returned no more to the gallery. Eva 
18 


274 


CHRISTLIKE. 


would not consent to her going out to work any 
more under any circumstances. 

“No,” said she, emphatically, “you have saved 
my life, and now the very least I can do in return 
is to do what is in my power to render your life 
comfortable. And besides,” she continued mis- 
chievously, “ your lover will soon be coming from 
the far west with a ship-load of gold, and it will 
never do for him to come and find you at work 
when you ought to be waiting for him, clad in 
bridal robes, and with your lamp trimmed and 
burning.” 

“I do not suppose,” replied Mary, “that he 
would think any the less of me if he came and 
found me honestly toiling for my own livelihood. 
If he would, he is not the man I think he is.” 

“Of course he would not, but then you have 
worked very hard over my worthless carcass, and 
now you must rest,” said Eva, laughingly. “But 
one thing must be arranged between us before he 
comes,” she continued, half in jest and half in 
earnest. “When he takes you away he must take 
me, too, for I can never bear to be separated from 
you again.” 

“Nothing could please me better, I assure you,” 
replied Mary, affectionately embracing her friend, 
“but what would your father say? Would he be 
willing to give up his daughter and the pet of his 
house, little Eddie?” 

“I fear not,” replied Eva, “nor would I be will- 
ing to ask him to make the sacrifice, and yet I 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


275 


should like to have you always with me, for I 
really feel that I owe my life to you.^’ 

“Not so, Eva, you give me too much credit,” 
replied our heroine with becoming modesty. 
“True, I did what little I could for you, but no 
more than you would have done for me under the 
same circumstances, and I do not think I am en- 
titled to any special thanks for it. To God, rather, 
let us give thanks for your deliverance from the 
fearful danger which threatened you.” 

“ You are right, my dear friend, to Him belongs 
the praise. But at the same time be assured that 
I none the less appreciate your kind and tender 
care of me, and that should occasion ever demand, 
or you unfortunately be placed in similar circum- 
stances, my conduct shall bear the amplest testi- 
mony to that appreciation,” said Eva, earnestly. 

Time, the great unfolder of all events, too soon 
proved that this was no idle promise on Eva’s 
Dart. 

A few weeks after the conversation we have nar- 
rated, Mary was out on a charitable visit to a 
poor family living in the suburbs of the city, when 
a cold and most violent storm of wind and rain 
came up. In a few moments her clothing was 
completely drenched, and she became chilled to 
the very marrow of her bones, and when she 
reached home her teeth chattered like one in an 
ague. The result was that when she arose the 
next morning, her head throbbed painfully, while 
her throat wag so sore that she could neither 


276 


CHRISTLIKE. 


speak nor swallow without the most intense pain. 

Eva, who realized much more fully than herself 
the condition of her friend, urged her to keep her 
room that day, at least, but Mary refused, saying 
it was merely a cold and she should be well 
enough in the morning. But morning came, and 
found her unable to rise. When she failed to 
make her appearance at the breakfast- table, Eva 
went to her room and found her suffering with a 
parching fever. 

She at once sent for the same kind, old physi- 
cian who had so faithfully attended her during her 
illness. He came, and carefully examined his 
patient, evincing a degree of anxiety quite unusual 
with him. Her disease was typhoid fever in its 
most violent form, and from the somewhat enfee- 
bled condition of Mary’s system (she had never 
fully recovered from the long days and nights of 
watching beside Eva, while her constant charitable 
labors had made still farther drains upon her en- 
durance) he evidently apprehended the most seri- 
ous consequences. He assured Eva that nothing 
short of such nursing and care as she had herself 
received would enable the frail bark of her friend 
to weather the storm, prescribed some remedies, 
and took his leave, promising to call again during 
the day. 

He came again towards evening, but her condi- 
tion was far from reassuring him, or relieving the 
anxiety he evidently felt on her account. He re- 
peated, and this time with even more impressive- 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


277 


ness than he had used in the morning, his assur- 
ance that nothing but the most watchful care and 
attention would enable her to survive the attack. 

From this time Eva established herself as chief 
nurse at the sick bed, and during the many long 
and weary days which elapsed while the life of 
Mary hung trembling in the balance, she was only 
less assiduous and unremitting in her attentions 
than Mary had been, because her physical strength 
and endurance were less. And her labors were at 
last crowned with complete success. 

One day when the old physician came and made 
his customary examination of his patient, instead 
of the usual doubting, uncertain shake of the head, 
his whole countenance brightened with hope and 
satisfaction. 

‘‘Ah! Miss Eva,” he exclaimed — he always 
called her Miss, notwithstanding his full knowl- 
edge of her past life — “you have now repaid the 
debt you owed Miss Mary. She saved your life by 
her watchfulness, and now you have done the same 
for her.” 

“ Do you think, then, doctor, that she is out of 
danger?” queried Eva, while the tone in which she 
spoke showed at once her confidence in the good 
old man, and the satisfaction which the announce- 
ment of his opinion afforded her. 

“Not entirely out of danger, certainly,” replied 
he, “ but she has passed the crisis of her disease, 
and we may safely affirm that with anything like 
proper care she will recover. And that she will 


278 


CHRISTLIKE. 


receive the best of care, the treatment she has 
already received is the best possible guaranty,” 
he hastened to add, fearing that his words might 
be construed to imply some doubts upon this 
point. 

“Be assured she will, so far as it is in my power 
to accomplish,” replied she earnestly, and the doc- 
tor soon after took his leave. 

From this time the convalescence of Mary was 
rapid. Notwithstanding the fierce attack which 
had been made upon the citadel of her life by the 
fell disease, it had been less insidious and under- 
mining than that by which Eva had been pros- 
trated, and her superior vitality enabled her to 
rally much more quickly. It was but about two 
weeks from the time of the conversation between 
Eva and the doctor until she was able to sit in an 
easy chair for some time together, while Eva sat 
by her side and read to her some interesting story 
or cheered her with suitable conversation. 

One of her earliest inquiries when she was able 
to converse at all, was whether any letters had 
arrived for her during her illness. Eva replied by 
placing in her hands several which had been taken 
from the post-office and carefully laid by at a 
time when it was quite uncertain whether she 
would ever be able to read them. She took them 
and turned them all over one by one, examined 
each superscription, and then without breaking 
the seals of any lay back upon her pillow with a 
weary sigh. Poor girl! the letter she looked for 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


279 


was not there. A short time she lay in silence 
with her eyes closed, and then Eva, who was 
watching her closely, saw the tears forcing their 
way between the tightly closed lids. 

She arose, and bending over the invalid, pressed 
a warm and affectionate kiss npon her quivering 
lips. In a moment Mary had wound her feeble 
arms about her neck^ and was sobbing in a half 
hysterical manner upon the bosom of her friend. 

Eva was terrified. She feared the effect of this 
state of excitement upon the enfeebled frame of 
the sufferer, but for a few moments she was utterly 
at a loss what to say or do. She therefore let her 
weep without attempting to check her, for a short 
time, and then gently wiping away her tears, she 
said : 

“My poor Mary, what is the matter?” 

“ Oh ! ” replied the invalid, “ I am so much dis- 
appointed. I thought I would certainly have a 
letter from Augustus. It has been so very, very 
long since he has written to me. And now I don’t 
care for any of these,” she added, with the petu- 
lance characteristic of persons whose minds as 
well as their bodies have been temporarily weak- 
ened by a severe attack of the disease from which 
she was just recovering. 

“ Do not feel so badly, my dear friend,” said 
Eva, soothingly. “ He may have written you sev- 
eral times and the letters may have been delayed 
by some irregularity of the mails. Or perhaps 
the clerk at the post-office may have overlooked 


280 


CHRISTLIKE. 


one or more letters for you.^ There are a thousand 
ways of accounting for your failure to hear from 
him without resorting to any of the horrible imag- 
inings which I see are rioting in that busy little 
brain of yours,” smiling as she spoke. 

“ I fear not. My heart tells me something dread- 
ful has happened,” said Mary, with a fresh burst 
of tears. 

“ Nay,” said Eva, ‘‘ you do not now display the 
customary good sense of . my friend. Be more 
calm and reasonable, and my word for it, this mat- 
ter will all be right in the end. I will go myself 
to the post-office and see if by any possibility they 
may have overlooked a letter for you.” 

“ No, you need not do that,” replied Mary, now 
more calm than before, ‘‘I know I have been very 
foolish, but I am weak, and my disappointment 
was so bitter. You will forgive me, will you 
not?” 

‘‘I have nothing to forgive,” replied Eva. “But 
I am glad to see you feeling better. Will you 
look at your letters now ? ” 

“ You may read them to me, if you please. I do 
not feel equal to the task of reading them myself.” 

Eva commenced, but long before she had fin- 
ished reading she observed that her listener had 
sunk into slumber. “ Poor girl,” she murmured, 
“how bitterly was she disappointed. But she will 
feel better when she wakes.” 

The next day Eva went to the post-office herself, 
and to her joy found there a letter for her friend 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


281 


which bore the post-mark of the far-off gold fields 
of the west. Her satisfaction, however, was but 
feeble compared with the intense delight with 
which the sick girl received the cheering messen- 
ger. For a time Eva feared that the effect of her 
intense joy would be even more serious than the 
consequences threatened by her disappointments 
of the day before. But it is said that “joy 
never kills,” and certainly it was so in this in- 
stance, for from the time of the receipt of this 
proof of her lover’s faithfulness she seemed to gain 
new strength with each succeeding day, until her 
friends, and even the old physician, were all 
amazed at the rapidity of her convalescence. 
They could not understand the deep, powerful, all- 
absorbing love which pervaded her heart and lent 
its generous, strengthening infiuence to every part 
of even her physical frame. 


282 


CHRISTLIKE. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

About three weeks after the events narrated in 
the last chapter, the two friends were one morning 
sitting in their room together, and Mary now quite 
convalescent, was reading the morning Journal, 
while Eva was silently engaged in some embroid- 
ery which she was preparing for a frock for her 
little boy. Suddenly Mary started up with the 
exclamation, “ I am going.” 

Eva looked up in surprise. “Where are you 
going?” she asked in a tone which betrayed the 
predominant feeling in her mind — that of astonish- 
ment. 

“Ah ! I beg your pardon,” said Mary. “ I did 
not think but you were reading the paper as well 
as myself. Miss Anna E. Dickinson is going to 
lecture at Masonic Hall to-morrow evening, on 
woman’s rights, and I would not miss hearing her 
for the world.” 

“ I would not care particularly to hear her,” re- 
plied Eva, entirely uninspired by her friend’s 
enthusiasm. 

“ Xot care particularly about hearing the most 
eloquent champion of the rights of her sex ! ” cried 
Mary, in astonishment. “ Why, Eva, what do you 
mean ? ” 

“Just what my words imply,” replied Eva, who, 
lacking the energy and positive force of character 


SAVE THE FALLEX. 


283 


of her friend, had wholly failed to perceive and 
comprehend the importance of the question which 
the lecturer proposed to discuss. “ I shall proba- 
bly go and listen to her out of curiosity, as I would 
go to hear a troupe of minstrels rehearse their non- 
sense, but it would be no great disappointment to 
me if anything should occur to prevent my doing 
so.” 

This was the first time this subject, which 
has of late engrossed so much of the atten- 
tion of the most profound and eminent think- 
ers and philosophers of our time, had ever been 
mentioned between the two friends, and each 
seemed equally astonished at the views of the 
other. For a moment neither spoke, but looked 
straight into each other’s eyes. Then Mary said 
slowly : 

“ Eva, are you not an advocate of and believer 
in woman’s rights ? ” 

“ I certainly am,” replied her friend, “ but not of 
usurpations.” 

“Are you not in favor of the mental, moral, social 
and political elevation of womankind ? ” 

“I would have the mental, moral and social 
position of woman improved to the utmost possible 
extent, and I would leave her political status just 
as it now is,” replied Eva. “ I think she now has 
all the political and civil rights, as you call them, 
which would conduce to her happiness.” 

“ But what good reason can be given why woman 
should not have the right to vote and hold office as 


284 


CHRISTLIKE. 


well as men ? Aye, and I think the offices would 
in many instances be better filled than they are 
now if women were admitted to them,’’ said Mary. 

“ It may be that in some cases they would,” said 
Eva^ “but what does that prove? Not that women 
are naturally or intrinsically better than men, but 
simply that the people do not in all cases choose 
the best men for officers. And what assurance 
have we that if women were admitted to office the 
same results would not follow ? The same influ- 
ences which corrupt men, and render them dishon- 
est in office, would corrupt women also; and as 
woman, when uncontaminated, is more refined and 
has more innate purity than man, so, to the shame 
of our sex be it spoken, when once corrupted by 
contact with the rougher features of life, she be- 
comes more degraded and unprincipled than man, 
and I fear that our sex would be corrupted more 
than the offices would be purified by our admission 
to them.” 

“ But would not her innate purity, of which you 
speak, have a tendency to refine and elevate the 
political world, and so bring it up to a proper 
standard ?” said Mary. “ I think it would, and 
that certainly is a reason for admitting women to 
its privileges.” 

“ It might be the case for a time,” replied Eva, 
“ but the result to woman would be disastrous, I 
fear, as well as in the end to the very system 
which you are seeking to elevate. You can take 
your pocket handkerchief and wipe fruit stains 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


285 


from your hands — your hands are thereby puri- 
fied, but your handkerchief is soiled ; and if you 
repeat the process often enough, the time will come 
when the handkerchief will not only refuse to re- 
move any more stains, but will instead, impart its 
own discoloration to the hand. So I fear it would 
be if women were admitted to hold office. The 
purifying effect would be but temporary, while 
woman in time becoming corrupt, would sink the 
offices still lower in corruption than they now 
are.” 

“ Then you would hold that woman has no 
power of her own to preserve the purity which you 
say characterizes her? You would compare her to 
a handkerchief,” said Mary, sententiously. 

“ By no means. I admit that the illustration is 
an extreme one, but we know that women have 
been corrupted, and that when so they are more 
corrupt than men. This is my argument.” 

“ I should have no fears of any such result,” 
said Mary. “ I have more faith in woman than 
you seem to have. I believe that the mass of 
women have sufficient strength of character to 
protect themselves from the defilement you so 
much deprecate, notwithstanding the fact that here 
and there a single one may be found who has been 
corrupted and degraded, as you say ! And even 
in these isolated cases men are to blame for such 
corruption.” 

“Very true. But if the women had been incor- 


286 


CHRISTLIKE. 


ruptible, men could not have corrupted them, could 
they ?” 

“ Perhaps not. But then, does not woman need 
these rights and privileges, and the benefit of the 
ballot for her own protection ?” queried Mary. 
“ As matters now stand, all our rights of person 
and property are at the will and pleasure of a set 
of self-constituted lords of creation, who assume 
the absolute right to dispose of us without the 
least regard to our feelings or wishes. As matters 
now stand, the end and aim of woman’s life is to 
become the wife of some man and the mother of 
his children, and thenceforward she must be en- 
tirely subservient to him ; must have no will of 
her own. No matter how dearly she may love the 
home where she had resided during all the hap- 
piest years of her wedded life, or how comfortable 
or convenient it may be — if her lord and master 
wishes to sell out and move to the far west, where 
the only comforts consist of roaming wild beasts 
and barbarous Indians, she has nothing to do but 
to sign the deed and accompany him. What mat- 
ters it that her already heavy burdens are in- 
creased ten-fold by the change — the law has said 
that she must submit to the will of her husband, 
and he has determined to go. So it must be.” 

“ I have no patience with the argument which 
assumes that men and women are naturally ene- 
mies,” said Eva, earnestly. For my part I regard 
their interests, and I believe the mass of mankind 
regard them — as does the law — as identical. If, 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


287 


in the case you mention, the husband and father 
changes his location, he must do it either for the 
purpose of bettering his financial condition, or for 
the sole purpose of inflicting the discomforts of 
which you speak upon her whom he has vowed to 
love, honor and cherish. If for the first, does not 
the wife share in the benefits equally with him ? 
If for the last, does he not inflict the same dis- 
comforts upon himself, to say nothing of the im- 
probability of any one in his senses acting from 
any such motive ?” 

“But if women own property and pay taxes, 
should they not have a voice in making the laws 
by which their property is governed, and their 
taxes assessed ? I regard it as the height of in- 
justice to require a woman who owns, perhaps, a 
hundred thousand dollars worth of property, to 
pay the taxes assessed by the votes of a lot of fel- 
lows, a thousand of whom, perhaps, do not own 
one-half the property which this single woman 
owns.’’ 

“ But does not that argument prove too much ?” 
asked Eva. “ And if it does, you know that ac- 
cording to the logicians, it proves nothing at all. 
If property gives a right to vote, then the exercise 
of the right ought to be just in proportion to the 
amount of property owned. So that if a person 
who owns one hundred dollars worth of property 
casts one vote, the person who owns one hundred 
thousand dollars worth ought to cast one thousand 
votes. This would place the poor at the mercy of 


'288 


CHRISTLIKE. 


the rich, and destroy republican institutions at 
once.” 

“ But surely,” persisted Mary, “ there is no 
good reason for saying that the rights of women 
in respect to the ballot-box should not be equal to 
those of men, whether based upon property quali- 
fication or not.” 

“ But again your argument proves too much, and 
is therefore bad. If women should vote, pray 
what good reason is there why children should 
not ? They, like adults, own property which is 
taxed by laws, in the making of which they have 
no voice ; they have no rights and duties which 
are defined -by the laws, and which they are com- 
pelled to obey. Why does not their protection 
demand that they should have the right to vote ?” 

“ There is a good reason for denying the ballot 
to them. Their minds and understanding are not 
sufficiently developed to enable them to vote un- 
derstandingly, and it would be dangerous in the 
highest degree to entrust such power in their 
hands. But the same reason does not apply to 
women of mature age. If it be said that the mass 
of women are not sufficiently educated in relation 
to political matters to vote with discretion, I an- 
swer that that is because they have not been per- 
mitted to investigate those questions, or had any 
inducement to do so. But were the prohibition 
once removed, as it surely will be when the world 
arrives at the point at which it is willing to do 
equal and exact justice to all, then woman, having 


SAVE THE FALLEN 


289 


some inducement to do so, will educate herself in 
these channels, and will then rise to her true 
sphere. How I long for that time to come,” said 
Mary, enthusiastically. “I want to vote whiskey 
out.” 

“ As to that,” said Eva, “ there are some children 
whose minds are better developed at the age of 
fifteen than are those of many men and women at 
twenty or thirty. The young man who has passed 
all his life in those studies which best fit him to 
understand the science of government cannot vote 
if he lack one day of being twenty-one years of 
age, while the great awkward lout, but two years 
older than himself, who never read a book or pa- 
per, and never heard a speech in his life ; who 
cannot even write his own name, walks proudly 
up and deposits a ballot, even the names upon 
which he does not know, much less the principles 
which it represents. And as for the true sphere of 
woman, I think she has attained it when she be- 
comes a loving and beloved wife and mother, when 
she presides as the honored mistress of a home 
which the love and industry of her husband have 
provided for her ; when she trains and develops 
the minds of her children in the pure principles of 
morality, virtue and true religion, thus fitting them 
to discharge with credit to themselves and honor 
to their teacher, their duties to the world of man- 
kind, or when she moves about like a ministering 
angel on errands of mercy, relieving misery and 

suffering wherever she finds it. This is my idea 
19 


290 


CHRISTLIKE. 


of woman's sphere and woman’s destiny, and for 
my part I crave no higher.” 

“ You may be content with that if you will ; 
content to be the slave of another ; to come and go 
at his bidding and to have no will or even identity 
of your own. For my part I aspire to something 
more. I desire to shine in the world of literature, 
science and politics ; to exercise any calling or 
profession to which my inclinations lead me, and 
for which I may be able to fit myself — in short, I 
wish to be free,” said Mary. 

“May you ever be as free as heart can wish, 
my dear Mary,” said Eva, tenderly, “ only beware 
that in your pursuit of what you call freedom you 
do not lose your own identity, and, instead of the 
sweet, loving, lovable woman you now are, be- 
come, by contact with the outer world in which 
you propose to mingle, rough and hard and un- 
feeling, and so lose the greatest charm of woman- 
hood.” 

“No fears of that, I think,” said Mary, laugh- 
ingly. “ But what about the pursuit of the learned 
professions by woman? Does your opposition to 
the enfranchisement of the sex go the length of 
forbiddding them to travel outside the routine of 
duties which custom has heretofore prescribed for 
them ?” 

“By no means,” replied Eva. “ I have no ob- 
jection to woman’s pursuing any vocation which 
does not tend to unsex her and produce the results 
I have just indicated. I would have every path of 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


291 


science and usefulness open to woman, and would 
have her walk in them just as far as she can with- 
out the loss of that modesty and retiring dispo- 
sition which constitute her principal charm 
and protection ; and mingling in the conflicts 
of the political arena would certainly have 
that effect. Hence my opposition to it. Cer- 
tain it is that in mere political contests, as such, 
there is nothing elevating or ennobling, and noth- 
ing which could have the effect of exalting the 
character or attributes of woman, or increasing her 
influence for good, but just the reverse. And be- 
lieving this, and that the strongest defense of her 
rights lies in inspiring love and devotion to and 
for her in the breasts of the sterner sex, I shall 
ever oppose her enfranchisement — at least until I 
receive some new light upon the subject.” 

‘‘But how about the compensation received by 
woman for her labor?” asked Mary. “Do you 
think the world is perfect in that respect, or are 
you willing to admit that in this direction there is 
some room for improvement?” 

“What are your views upon that subject?” 
asked Eva, as naturally as she could had she 
been a native-born Yankee. 

“I think,” she replied, “that the grossest injus- 
tice is done woman in that respect. I think when 
a woman performs the same labor that a man 
does, and performs it just as well as a man does, 
she should receive the same wages, while in fact 
her compensation rarely exceeds one-half ^that 


292 


CHRISTLIKE. 


allotted to men. I think it will puzzle even your 
ingenuity to find an excuse for so glaring an injus- 
tice as this.” 

“To a certain extent I will agree' with you,” 
replied Eva. “ I will admit that the compensation 
of woman for labor is at times far below what 
justice would demand, and I will go farther and 
say that when a woman performs a man’s labor in 
the great hive of human industry, and performs it 
as well as a man would, she should receive a 
man’s wages. The only difficulty lies in deter- 
mining just when that condition of things exists.” 

“How so? I do not understand you.” 

“In the first place, woman is seldom as thor- 
oughly the master of her calling or vocation as 
man. One of the principal reasons for this is, not 
that woman has less capacity for mastering the 
details of any vocation than mau, but because she 
seldom intends to devote her life to its pursuit. 
The female clerk, book-keeper, seamstress, or any- 
thing else, regards her employment in these capac- 
ities as merely temporary, and generally looks 
forward to something entirely different in the 
future, while the man who adopts any of these vo- 
cations expects to pursue them all his life, and 
hence will naturally take more pains to perfect 
himself in all their details, even to the smallest 
minutiae.” 

“But do you not think that injustice is very 
often done to women in the matter of compensa- 
tion* for labor which they really perform ? Look 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


293 


at Mrs. Evans, over the way, for instance. With 
a family of three small children to support, she 
works early and late at her sewing-machine, for 
which she receives from that skin-flint, Mr. Jones, 
but flve dollars a week. How she subsists on it is 
more than I can tell. I^ow, if she was permitted 
employment in Mr. Jones’ store in place of one of 
those young men, she could earn at least twice as 
much.” 

“But if she went out to clerk, who would care 
for her children in her absence? Would she be at 
the store as early and stay as late as the young 
men ? If not, would she do a man’s work ? And 
if she did, what would become of her children? 
Still, I admit that injustice is often done in this 
way, and especially in the case you mention. But 
it seems to me that is one of t^e evils incident to 
fallen humanity, and for which there is no remedy 
until the arrival of the millennium and the uni- 
versal adoption of the Golden Rule.” 

“But would not the admission of woman to the 
exercise of the elective franchise do much to rem- 
edy the evil?” 

“ I think not. Attempts have often been made 
to regulate by law the relations of capital and 
labor, but always without success. These rela- 
tions ever have and ever will be regulated by the 
law of demand and supply.” 

“ Why, Eva, you are quite a political philoso- 
pher. But I cannot agree with your notions. Your 
theories are entirely too fine-spun for my compre- 


294 


CHRISTLIKE. 


hension. But let us go and hear Miss Dickinson, 
and see if she cannot beat some sense into your 
head upon this subject, for I confess it is beyond 
my power,” said Mary, laughing. 

“ With all my heart,” replied Eva, in the same 
strain, “but I very much fear that even your great 
apostle will fail to make any impression on my 
mind. I fear 1 am joined to my idols.” 

“None so blind, etc.,” said Mary, and the sub- 
ject was dropped. 

The friends went according to agreement and 
heard Miss Dickinson’s lecture. On their return 
the discussion was very naturally resumed, but as 
it took substantially the same range as the former, 
only varied by the introduction of some new ideas 
suggested by this able and eloquent advocate of 
the rights of her sex, it is not necessary that we 
should indict it upon our readers. We leave it 
to each reader to say for him or herself which had 
the best of the argument, only remarking that the 
ideas advanced by Mary have received the sanc- 
tion of many of the most eminent men and women 
of our time, among whom may be mentioned such 
names as Horace Greeley, John Bright, Dick 
Yates, Lucy Stone, Mrs. E. C. Stanton, Harriet B. 
Stowe, and thousands of others. 

The arguments advanced by Eva, on the con- 
trary, are those which have in all ages been em- 
ployed by the enemies of progress, people who are 
content with any situation in which they happen 
to be placed, and who are continually predicting 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


295 


disaster as the result of any change or innovation. 
But despite the croakings of these would-be phi- 
losophers, the cause is steadily progressing, and 
the time will yet come when woman will be rated 
at her true value, and accorded her proper posi- 
tion, when she will be recognized as the peer and 
equal of man instead of his slave, and in her new- 
found power will have the means of protecting her- 
self against the evils she is now compelled to en- 
dure. Then will her sphere of intellectual enjoy- 
ment be enlarged according to her true merit, her 
merely physical labor will be compensated ac- 
cording to its actual worth, and all the world will 
be the better and happier for the change from bar- 
barous injustice to the strict rules of equity. 

“ The fact is women do not post themselves on 
this subject of voting; they must read and study 
this matter, for the time is not far distant when 
we will all have equal rights with the men,” said 
Mary. 


296 


CHRISTLIKE. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

It had been some time since Mary bad heard 
from her lover, and she was unusually depressed 
in spirits. Her life, as the reader is well aware, 
had been of a character to impart a tinge of mel- 
ancholy to her entire disposition, but now she was 
even more so than usual. So long a time had 
elapsed since she had heard from him — so much 
longer than usual — that she found the sweet dream 
of happiness in which she had so long indulged 
was at an end forever. She still remained at Mr. 
Aston’s, partly because she had nowhere else to 
go, and partly because Eva would not consent to 
part with her. 

One day she had been out paying one of her 
customary visits of mercy to a poor, sick widow, 
who had long been a pensioner on her bounty, 
when, as she returned, Eva met her with a beam- 
ing face. 

“ Here,” said she, holding out a letter, “ is a cure 
for your low spirits.” 

Mary took the letter and glanced at the address. 
It was in the well-known handwriting, and mur- 
muring, “ Thank God, it has come at last,” she 
withdrew to her own room to open and read it 
alone. Upon breaking the seal she found the pho- 
tograph of a fine-looking man, but the features 
were strange to her. She could not understand it,. 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


297 


and turned to the perusal of the letter for an 
explanation. 

It was in the old, familiar, lover-like style, con- 
tained renewed assurances of his faithfulness, but 
told her the day of his return was still uncertain. 
His business was prospering, but was in such con- 
dition that he could not leave it at present, but as 
soon as he possibly could he was coming home to 
redeem his long plighted vows. A postscript ex- 
plained the strange photograph. It ran thus : 

“ I send a photograph of my partner for your 
friend Eva Earl. His feelings have been interested 
in her by your description of her, and he desires 
to open a correspondence with her. He is a young 
widower with one child, a sweet little girl, and is 
the very soul of honor. He would be pleased to 
have her photograph in exchange for his. His 
name is Ford Bentley.” 

She showed this postscript and the likeness to 
Eva, and the latter, after consultation with her 
friend, decided, although it was not exactly the or- 
thodox way of forming acquaintances, to send her 
photograph and a note to Mr. Bentley in the next 
letter which Mary sent to her lover. This was the 
beginning of a correspondence between them which 
was kept up with the utmost faithfulness until in 
time, becoming mutually interested in each other, 
their vows of fealty were interchanged without 
their ever having seen each other. 

Time, with his ever restless wing, flitted merrily 
by to the two women whose lives, so long embit- 


298 


CHRISTLIKE. 


tered, were now brightened and blest by the love 
of faithful, honest, strong-hearted men ; and at last 
came the glad tidings that the time for their de- 
parture from the golden shores of California was 
fixed. They were coming home, each to claim his 
promised bride, and though months would elapse 
before their coming, still our friends could look 
forward with confidence and hope to the haven of 
rest and love which awaited them. It was finally 
arranged that the double wedding should take 
place on the Fourth of July then next ensuing, at 
Mr. Aston’s house. 

Soon after this, Eva received a letter from her 
cousin Clara, informing her that on the 26 th of 
June she was to be married, and invited her to at- 
tend the wedding. She did not give the name of 
her future cousin, but merely informed Eva that he 
was a young widower with one child, named Rosa, 
who dearly loved her, and whom she already loved 
as though she had been her own offspring. The 
letter contained the most glowing anticipations of 
future happiness, and warmly urged Eva to be 
present. 

As a matter of course the invitation could not be 
accepted, and in declining it, Eva informed her 
cousin of the double wedding so soon to come off 
in Indianapolis, and invited Clara to extend her 
wedding tour to that place and be present. In due 
time came a letter of congratulation from Clara 
.accepting the invitation of Eva, and promising to 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


299 


arrive in Indianapolis as early as the evening of 
the third. 

About the fifteenth of June the Californians 
arrived at the capital of the Hoosier State. Words 
will not suffice to portray the meeting between 
Mary and her lover after their long and painful 
separation. Ah ! what events had transpired since 
they parted long years before in the city of Cin- 
cinnati. Mary had mourned his faithlessness, 
while his heart was true as the needle to the pole ; 
she had been wooed and won ; had seen her hus- 
band go down amid pain and anguish into the 
dark valley of the shadow of death, and followed 
his remains to the tomb ; had watched beside the 
bed of a dear friend when she thought that all she 
had to love was about to be taken from her ; had 
been so close to the dark river herself that its 
murky waters laved her feet and chilled her frame, 
and had been mercifully preserved through it all, 
and now everything promised a future as happy as 
the past had been miserable. 

The adventures of her lover had been startling 
in the extreme, but this is not the place to recount 
them. We have nothing to do with his grizzly 
bear hunts, fights with hostile Indians, his suffer- 
ing for want of food and water while crossing the 
plains, the sickness which had prostrated him in 
that far-off land, and would have proved fatal in 
all probability but for the kind care and attention 
of the friend whom he had brought with him to 
wed her friend Eva. Mary listened with tearful 


300 


CHRISTLIKE. 


attention to his history, and in her inmost soul she 
thanked God for his mercy in sparing and bring- 
ing him back to her again. 

And best of all, the letter which had produced 
so much of unhappiness to Mary, and upon the 
strength of which she had married Dr. Wills, was 
explained to her entire satisfaction. At the time 
of writing he was suffering from the most in- 
tense depression of spirits, consequent upon a long 
and uninterrupted course of misfortune, and be- 
lieving it to be very doubtful if he should ever 
return to the States, and feeling that it was unjust 
to hold Mary bound by a promise, of the fulfill- 
ment of which he could not see the least proba- 
bility, he had written the letter to free her from 
such bonds, believing that, though his own heart 
bled at so doing, he was thereby promoting her 
happiness. And when he received the notice of 
her marriage with Dr. Wills, he was confirmed in 
that belief, and had no suspicion of the contrary 
until the arrival of her holiday presents. 

The meeting of Eva and her lover, though less 
demonstrative than that of the others, was never- 
theless as pleasant. It must be borne in mind 
that up to this moment they had never seen each 
other, but at the first meeting each intuitively 
felt that the other was well worthy all the love 
which had been awakened during their correspon- 
dence, or that either could bestow. And now Eva 
learned that the little girl who accompanied her 
lover was not his child, but the child of a dearly 


SAVE THE FALLEN 


301 


loved sister, who had been driven from ner home 
by the abuse of her husband, and had left this 
child in charge of himself and his wife. Since 
then he had lost all trace of this sister, his wife 
had died, and he had always cared for the little 
“ Tinnie ” and represented her as his own. 

It was now but about three weeks till the day 
set for the double wedding, and preparations for 
the great event were going on with a rapidity 
which effectually excluded everything else. On 
the night of the third, Clara and her husband 
arrived, and with them came a gentleman — a spec- 
ial friend of Clara’s husband — by the name of 
William Hull. When Clara introduced her hus- 
band, Eva, to her surprise, learned that his name 
wsis Bentley, the same as that of the gentleman 
whom she was about to marry. As it was very 
late when they arrived, they soon retired withont 
meeting any of the family except Mary and Eva. 

The next morning the sun rose bright and 
clear — an augury of the brightness which was to 
surround the future lives of Mary and Eva. 
“ Happy is the bride the sun shines on,” says the 
adage, and surely, if there be any truth in the 
adage, they ought to be happy, for never did the 
sun shine brighter than during the whole of that 
eventful day. For eventful it truly was in more 
senses than one. It was to be a day not only of 
important events to those interested, but of most 
wonderful surprises — surprises which would seem 
almost like fiction but for the fact that the author 


302 


CHRISTLIKE. 


was present, and knows them to be strictly true. 

At the proper time the guests began to assemble 
in the spacious parlors of the Aston mansion, a 
gay and goodly part of the elite of the city. Car- 
riage after carriage drove up and deposited its 
freight of laughing humanity, all clad in their gay- 
est apparel, to do honor to the occasion, for Eva 
and Mary were universal favorites in the circle in 
which tliey moved, and Mr. Aston was esteemed 
and respected by all who knew him. At last 
came the man of God, who was to pronounce the 
words which were to bind together for life the two 
pairs of loving hearts, so long faithful and so 
worthy of each other. 

Soon after the arrival of the minister there was 
a gentle buzz among the guests, and soon the word 
passed from lip to lip, “they are coming.” The 
next moment a side door was thrown open, and 
the brides and grooms entered. All were attired 
with the most faultless taste, and an involuntary 
murmur of admiration burst from the audience. 
It was but momentary; the next instant it was 
hushed by an exclamation from a gentleman sit- 
ting in the corner of the room, and all eyes wero 
at once turned toward him. It was Clara’s hus- 
band. 

He was gazing as if petrified upon the foremost 
bridegroom ; he half rose from his seat, and then 
observing that the attention of the whole company 
was attracted' to himself, he, by a powerful effort,, 
resumed his composure and his seat at the same 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


303 


time, and the ceremony proceeded. But the atten- 
tion of the guests had been particularly attracted 
by his strange conduct, and now all were struck 
with the extraordinary resemblance between him 
and the bridegroom, who, on his part, having ob- 
served the other, seemed scarcely less agitated. 

As soon as the ceremony was performed, Clara 
and her husband approached as if to offer their 
congratulations. A few words were hurriedly and 
privately interchanged between the bridegroom 
and the latter, who then turned to the audience 
and said : 

“ Ladies and gentlemen : I owe you an apology 
for my strange conduct. This man is my brother. 
It has been years since I have seen him, or since 
we have had any trace whatever of each other, 
and when I recognized him as the expectant hus- 
band of my wife’s cousin, it was but natural that 
I should be somewhat agitated. This is my apol- 
ogy.” 

The reader will not need the assurance that the 
apology was received as satisfactory, or that the 
congratulations of the assembled guests were 
equally divided between the happy brothers and 
their brides — so much so that Mary and her new- 
made husband were in danger of being overlooked 
altogether. But they were too much engrossed in 
observing the happiness of their friends to care for 
the omission or even to notice it. It was indeed a 
most pleasant meeting, and added no little to the 
zest of the occasion. 


304 


CHRISTLIKE. 


But this was not the only surprise of the day. 
When the excitement of this discovery had some- 
what subsided, Nannie, the girl who presided over 
the culinary department of Mr. Aston’s house, en- 
tered with a train of servants bringing refresh- 
ments. No sooner had the glare of the gas-light 
fallen upon her face than Mr. Bentley, Eva’s hus- 
band, sprang forward with a great cry of joy. 

“ What ! ” said he, “ another surprise ! Are you 
Nannie Hull, or do my eyes deceive me? ” 

“I am indeed,” replied the bewildered girl, 
“and you are ” 

“ I am Ford Bentley, your long-lost brother, and 
the little girl with me is none other than your own 
little Tinnie.” 

“And I,” said Clara’s husband, springing to 
their side, “ am your other brother, Herman. 
Thank God for bringing us all together once more 
after having so long known nothing of each other, 
or whether living or dead.” 

The next moment the girl was weeping with 
hysterical joy in the arms of her brothers, while 
the entire company gathered around in wondering 
astonishment, and tears flowed from many a beau- 
tiful eye in sympathy with hers. But still another 
surprise awaited them. 

The gentleman who had accompanied Clara and 
her husband from New York came up, pale and 
trembling, and, forcing his way through the crowd, 
said in husky tones : 

“Nannie, my own, my much-loved, injured wife, 


SAVE THE FALLEi, 


305 


do you not know me ? I am William Hull, your 
unworthy but repentant husband. Long but 
vainly have I sought you, and now I find you 
here. Oh! I^'annie, will you not look upon and 
forgive me all my cruelty? It was drink that 
made me the fiend I was to you, but now I have 
repented and reformed, and, God being my helper, 
if you will take me to your heart once more, never 
shall act or word of mine cause you pain again.” 

One moment she gazed at him as if doubting his 
identity, and then she flung herself into his ex- 
tended arms. 

‘‘ Oh ! William,” she sobbed, “ how I have wept 
and watched and prayed for this meeting. And 
at times I have almost despaired of ever seeing 
you again. But God is good and he has at last 
answered my prayer.” 

The guests were amazed, stunned and bewilder- 
ed at the rapidity with which surprises followed 
each other. They looked from one to the other as 
if to inquire whether they were in a magician’s 
enchanted castle or a haunted house ; whether they 
were awake or dreaming, or what new surprise 
awaited them. But in the midst of the general 
confusion the reader will readily believe that there 
were four happy souls who recked little of the as- 
tonished looks by which they were surrounded. 

And now, dear reader, our story is ended. We 
have seen the unfortunate Mary duped by a vil- 
lian and reduced to the condition of an outcast ; 
we have witnessed her redemption through the in- 
20 


306 


CHRISTLIKE. 


fluence of a noble order and the Christian relig- 
ion; we have traced her in her good deeds, by 
which she sought to atone for the wrongs she had 
done ; and we have witnessed her union for life 
with the chosen of her heart ; one every way wor- 
thy of her and in every way qualified to render 
her happy. 

Come with me, dear reader, while we pay a fly- 
ing visit to the several characters who have ap- 
peared in these pages. All are personal friends 
and intimate acquaintances of mine, and they will 
make us welcome. 

Nannie and her husband live in a pleasant 
house on one of the principal streets in Topeka, 
Kansas, in the enjoyment of all the happiness af- 
forded by this world, tempered only by the sad 
recollection of the untimely end of their little Tin- 
nie, who died but a short time after the reconcilia- 
tion of her parents, of injuries received from a 
severe fall while at play. 

Clara and Jier husband live in a small cottage 
in Emporia, Kansas. They have one bright-eyed 
baby boy — a brother for little Kosa, who never 
wearies of watching and admiring him. They are 
as happy as they deserve to be. 

Mary and her husband, and Marcia and her hus- 
band, reside in Cleveland, Ohio. As Mary and 
Marcia before their marriage were united by ties 
of indissoluble affection, so since their marriage 
their friendship has continued, and has finally cul- 
minated in bringing them into the closest possible 


SAVE THE FALLEN. 


307 


relations to each other. Mary has a boy baby 
three months old. 

Eva and her husband and child live in a small 
but very comfortable and pleasant house in La 
Fayette, Indiana. Mr. Aston no longer lives in 
Indianapolis. When Eva left his house it was too 
lonely there for him, (his wife and son having been 
dead some time) and he sold out his property there 
and went to live with his daughter, his only living 
relative. 

And thus, dear reader, we will bid them all fare- 
well, only wishing that the happiness they now 
enjoy may continued to attend them all adown the 
journey of life, and that in the end they may be 
gathered to still more perfect happiness in the 
bright realms beyond the tomb, and may you, dear 
reader, be benefited by reading this little volume. 


THE END. 




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